Losing Things
by Doxx
Summary: Spoilers for DA2:    after the end of the events of DA2, Anders and Hawke find themselves entangled in a realationship rapidly turning into something dark and twisted.
1. Chapter 1

Dark fill for a prompt on the kink meme, for M!hawke/Anders, abusive realationship.

warning, DA2 spoilers, dark themes, unhealthy realationship, violence, dub-con, emotional manipulation, drugs, bondage, emotional trauma.

In retrospect, he shouldn't have stopped to play with the ginger cat lounging by the bakery. Delighting in how the feline would purr and flex under his hand, he'd lost track of time, and so when Anders finally managed to drag himself away and back to the hovel he and Hawke shared, the light was dimming in the streets, casting them in muddy tones. It rather reminded him of Darktown.

Walking in the dark held little intimidation here, much unlike the threat ever present in Kirkwall undercity. The town Hawke had eventually decided on was only just large enough for anonymity. There was a chantry, small, cosy, with a single elder templar was housed there, who seemed to mostly occupied herself with gossiping with the local fishwives. Anders was still unable to pronounce the name of the town, and only knew it was a day's trek from the coast, and somewhere between Kirkwall and Rivain.

He'd entered the small set of rooms they had managed to rent with what coin Hawke had had on his person when forced to flee Kirkwall, to find the rogue frantically strapping bits of armour on. battleworn pieces of leather and metal that they had stored at the bottom of their packs, Anders's feathered cowl and Hawke's red and black mantle too easy to recognise in light of their newly acquired fugitive status.

At the sound of the door, scraping shut against a frame that was too tight when it rained and too loose in the sun, Hawke's head had snapped upwards.

"Anders! Where in blazes have you been? I was just about to go turn the streets upside down looking for you!"

Anders gave a half grin, remembering the cat, "there was this sweet little pussy cat and..." Anders looked up, hoping to see his lovers face break into a smile. His voice faltered when he caught sight of narrow eyes and tightened jaw.

"Have you lost your mind? You are the single most wanted man in Thedas, mages and templars alike shouting for your head... I thought something had happened to you..." Hawke's voice dipped, but his face did not soften, and Anders saw the worry, the panic still hold tight sway over the rogue.

"I apologise, I did not mean to scare you."

Hawke said nothing, instead started to unbuckle his armour, every movement sharp and angry. Guiltily, Anders tried to rest a hand on the shoulder nearest, to reassure and aplease, but Matthias jerked from the touch. The mage tried not to wince at the dejection, and let Hawke take himself, now undressed to a simple tunic and breeches, out the door. As he left, he grumbled that he needed some air, and not to wait up.

* * *

><p>Hawke fumed quietly into his watery beer.<p>

Was it not bad enough that Anders's actions had ripped everything he had worked so hard for the last sevens years to shreds, but the man seemed oblivious to the danger he courted still, simply being out where he could be seen. Matthias doubted that anyone in the town could pose too much of a threat to the mage and himself, but if they were to have any chance of rebuilding, he could not risk having to fight. It would give away too much, his own legend haunting him, mocking him even in this little backwater town.

Ebberan was far enough away from shipping routes, and the main roads to and from larger cities that the stories he heard in the pub were fragmented, and varied wildly with each telling. They were entertainment, and no-one really believed that the champion of Kirkwall had really defeated a high dragon, or faced down a Qunari arishok. There was safety in that, but even then, the rumours and tales were too painful a reminder of what he had managed to achieve, against all odds.

He missed his grand homestead, and being able to afford food and clothes without fretting about the cost. The coin he could earn, doing odd jobs and manual labour, was pitiful compared to the rich hauls that could be recovered from dragon's hoards or slaver strongholds. It was too risky however, to attempt such feats, without companions to aid him or avoid the unwanted attention it would bring. He had to force himself to turn down the more adventurous tasks, trying desperately to blend and hide within the simple populace.

He ordered another beer, and tried to remember the rich foam of the brew at the hanged man in favour of the poor attempt at alcohol laid before him.

Anders. He would have cut down every templar in Kirkwall to keep him safe, and yet he went and did something Hawke's daggers could not protect him against. He'd fractured Hawke's collection of friends and allies, none staying longer than they had to after the gallows, each fearful or angry at the war Anders had started. Kirkwall was a battleground, and the champion had been forced to leave his home, his title, everything.

Anders had thanked him for his life, but had not seemed to realise that he had cost Hawke his.

He had lost Bethany as well, but the thought of his sister jarred Hawke from his sour mood, and he forced the memory back, unable to deal with it yet. He had not told Anders what had happened, kept the knowledge and the blame bottled up inside.

Matthias could feel the tension in his shoulders, and shook his head at himself. He loved Anders, or at least, he had done before the chantry had started to rain down upon the streets in rumble and flame. He supposed he still did, but things had gotten so much more complicated, it was hard to pull back all the frustration and fear and see what was left. It would be easier, he thought, if he could rest assured that Anders was at least safe, so he did not work himself up into such a mess every time the mage stepped out the door.

Then, Mattias Hawke, the former champion of Kirkwall, hatched a plan.

Anders was waiting for him, sitting on of of the mismatched chairs by the table, chewing on a fingernail. Hawke shut the door behind him with a click, and met the mage's reddened eyes. He sat down heavily, and reached to pull Anders's hand from his mouth.

"I'm sorry, I should have realised the worry I caused you. I should have-" the words was rushed, almost frantic to apologise.

"Hush Anders. Its OK, I forgive you."

the relief was visible in the mage, as Anders breathed out his tension and fear. Hawke smiled softly.

"But I have been thinking. It is too dangerous for you to go out alone. I care too much about you, and the thought of something happening... Of a templar hunter or someone visiting who has seen the wanted posters..."

"You mean... *never* go out the house?" Anders looked uncomfortable at even the mention of the idea, and shook his head. "Surely its not that dangerous to merit such measures. I'll be more careful. And try not to be late again, save you from worrying."

Hawke bridged his hands in front of him, and stared at Anders, a careful look of concern on his face.

"Worrying? You make me sound like a flustered housewife. No Anders, I was terrified for you. You would put me through that again?"

"No, of course not... But to stay inside constantly, it is a bit drastic. You make it sound like the streets are filled with templar and angry mobs... "

Hawke lowered his eyes, "its not just that I fear. Its you yourself."

"What do you mean?"

"Can you honestly say you can keep control no matter what happens? It would take just one ignorant townperson to blame mages for his crops failing, or remarking that the templar ought to do more than just lock the mages up... Or even someone kicking a dog. It would take just a flicker of Justice, a flash of blue light, and they would turn on you."

"Justice hasn't emerged since we've been here..." Anders offered, feeling strangely ill at ease that Hawke could think him such a liability.

Hawke looked up, dark eyes scanning Anders's. "His past record is not reassuring..."

Unable to formulate a convincing reply, when what Hawke said was basically true, Anders threw up his hands.

"So what do you want me to do?"

"Stay here. I'll bring books, anything you want. Just lay low until the talk of the town has moved on to something else."

"I... I don't think I can do that..."

"Please... Please Anders, for me?" Hawke's voice did not normally sound so fragile, so desperate. It undid Anders's resolve to argue against the man, and he nodded, trying not to think of how he could already feel the walls closing in around him.

* * *

><p>Perhaps it was cruel, to keep the mage who obviously had containment issues cooped up in their rented accommodation, but Hawke found he could breathe easier, knowing where Anders was at all times. He could work, shifting bales of hay or barrels of salted fish, and not feel the gnawing edge of panic invade his mind for fear of what harm might have befallen the wanted apostate. He had even managed to go out with a collection of similarly hired hands and enjoy himself, and it had felt good to drink and laugh at the pub. He had to be careful, guarding his words when talking about himself, but years in Varric's company had given him volumes of stories to distract conversation when queries got too personal.<p>

He used a different name here, borrowing a Lothering butcher's alias. The locals at the tavern had come to know 'Marsillion Harris', or Mars to his friends, and that too, was pleasant. He'd been a refugee too long, and could still remember what it was like to live in lowtown, largely ignored in the shadows, scraping for recognition.

If only Anders could appreciate that Hawke was finally claiming back some sort of life, he perhaps would not shuffle room to room, fighting as if suffering from fleas.

Not that fleas were entirely out of the question. Little by little Hawke had started to build a home, proper bed sheets, plates that were not rough and cracked. Still, the walls could be damp after the rain, and the mattress provided had a set of stains that did not bear thinking about. The rent was too high for the standard, but for sake of privacy they had been forced to accept. Even though, Hawke was grateful, albeit reluctantly, that their landlord seemed devoid of curiosity beyond when the rent would be delivered.

No matter how many books Hawke provided however, he could not ease the mage's restlessness. Animals were not permitted, and parchment too rare to risk purchasing, and so he could see Anders grown more and more discontent to remain.

Matthias had protested against night wanderings, declaring them too suspicious, and Anders had sulked for days. Hawke could tell though, that Anders was reaching a point where something had to be done to keep the mage under wraps. Something drastic.

"They hung a mage in the square today."

Anders, obviously not expecting such news, blinked slowly. Hawke could see him try to steady his breathing, to keep control. Hawke swallowed, and carried on.

"Half the town was there... I didn't know the girl, some poor local, barely more than a child..."

"What happened?" justice was there, in Anders's voice, Hawke could hear the change, but as he looked up, he was met by Anders, desperately fighting to keep control. Hawke let his head drop sadly, as if mourning.

"I didn't get the full story, but seems they found the girl heating bathwater for her grandmother. Or maybe her aunt, it doesn't matter. She was using magic, and they dragged her out. She didn't fight, just stood there as the templar was called. By the time the templar got there, the crowd was out for blood.

"Ser Aggie, the templar, she tried to calm the crowd, but there were too many voices, too many people, scared and stupid and shouting. Too dangerous to live, they said. No circle to send her to, no choice but to hang her. In the end, Ser Aggie was forced to agree. They made a simple noose and gallows, and... and... They hung that poor girl. In front of her family, her friends... To the sound of cheering..."

Hawke broke off, and reached a hand out for Anders. The body did not react, but he could hear the quickness in breathing and feel the tension under the skin.

"No... " Barely even a whisper, Anders seemed distant, as if he wasn't behind the soft brown eyes.

When his eyes started to glow in a fierce blue, Hawke tightened his grip. It was Anders who responded, forcing Justice back. He spoke to himself, "No! Attacking the town would only make things worse. Give them cause to hang every mage they find. We can't... We mustn't..."

His eyes faded, and he looked to Hawke, apologetic.

"Justice wants to know why you let it happen..."

"I didn't hear about it till I was returned from the barns, by the time I got there, it was too late."

Anders tilted his head, listening to the fade spirit, and rubbed at an eye.

"I did not think it would get like this..."

Hawke wrapped his arms around the mage's shocked frame, pulling Anders into a tight, possessive embrace.

"Do you see now the danger?"

Anders couldn't quite tell if Hawke meant the danger of the townspeople, or of his fluctuating control over Justice. Not that it much mattered, either way, it was evidently not safe for him to go outside. Overwhelmed, with Justice protesting loudly at his inaction, the mage let himself be swallowed by Hawke's grasp. As the mage pressed against Hawke's strong chest, the former champion started to smile.

* * *

><p>He did not like Justice. There was something too righteous about the fade spirit, that left no room for financial gain or living with the consequences. Or even trying to live. Justice would have both of them charge out onto the streets at every opportunity to right the wrongs of the world. That Hawke and Anders were but mortals, with flesh that could be broken seemed of little consequence, and he'd heard Anders often explaining that a sword to the arm *hurt*, and ought to be avoided when possible.<p>

The fade spirit was a complication, in an already awkwardly balanced relationship. Justice refused to speak with him directly if he could help it, after witnessing Hawke kick a bunch of homeless Fereldens out of an old warehouse to make room for an illegal shipment of lyrium. He'd had a shouting match with the spirit, right in the middle of the warehouse, struggling to relate to the 'thing' wearing the mage's face. Justice had called him deviant scum, and had not been impressed with Hawke's irritated retort about 'making a living'. Thanks to quick reflexes, Hawke had managed to avoid the subsequent bolt of lightening, and Anders had then wrestled control from Justice before the spirit electrocuted his lover.

Anders, now forced to relay Justice's commands (always commands, never requests), obviously found the situation trying. Though Matthias could see the efforts the mage went to to keep his temper in check, Justice remained an ever-present threat, a lit fuse with which Hawke could quite easily live without.

Now that Anders had been scared into remaining housebound, both with his tale of non-existent mage hangings and a small reminder of how easy it was for Justice to rear his blue glowing head, Hawke felt it high time to deal with the fade spirit.

* * *

><p>"Did you know, it is exactly fourteen and a half steps from one end of house to the other?" It was meant as a lighthearted comment, something to ease Hawke into the conversation that would convey exactly how crazy Anders was growing from being enclosed in the same grubby space.<p>

"Hmm?" Hawke looked up, gingerly plucking the kettle from the fireplace and brewing a pot of tea. Hawke rarely drank it, declaring it not to his taste, but Anders enjoyed the taste of the spiced leaves, and found the process of preparing the brew a welcome distraction during the day. Hawke said it was a blend to help with sleep, after an unfortunate incident a couple of days ago when Anders had woken in the night, eyes blazing. Justice did not understand nightmares, and had reacted as if under attack, and nearly shot a hole through the wall. Hawke knew by then to find cover when justice appeared, and had shouted from the other side of a door that everything was fine, and that there was no danger.

When Anders had finally managed to get Justice to listen, he could feel the magic crackling at his fingertips. He hated to think what would have happened if Justice had actually conjured the tempest in the confines of the room, and the whole experience had left him shaken. So it was a relief when he found the tea to actually work, and even to be palatable. He took the offered cup from Hawke gratefully.

"It is rather cramped. If they let us have a cat, there hardly be room to swing it." Hawke agreed, oiling his daggers, laying out the equipment on the kitchen table. He had another, simpler set for wearing out, but these were his favourite weapons. Expensive and deadly, and much too grand to do anything but raise questions in this small town. The blades did not need the maintenance, they were so rarely used these days that the metal was in no danger of rust due to rain or blood or dragon spit, but the habit was ingrained. The act served to calm Hawke, and Anders enjoyed watching the man focusing so intently on the work.

"... Did you ask about a cat?" Anders tried not to look disappointed when Hawke put down the dagger with a click.

"Same as before, and the last time. The landlord will not permit any sort of animal. He's quite set upon that rule. I daresay even Lothian would not shift his mind, and he was a shining example of a wardog."

Lothian had been Hawke's mabari, surviving Lothering, and the darkroads, and even having the guts to bite a high dragon. But one of Meredith's animated slave statues had caught the dog unawares in the heat of the battle against the crazed templar. The lumbering statue had crushed the dog underfoot, and the crack of bone had been missed as Hawke desperately drew Meredith's ire from Cullen, who had been knocked down and was bleeding heavily.

When the idol finally claimed the knight-commander, Hawke was granted only a moment to take stock of the battleground, see the managed mess of fur, offer a brief commendation to the bravery of the mabari, before they'd fled lest the remaining templars decide that he ought to stay and be held accountable. He might have stayed, and tried to report on what had transpired, but for the apostate mage at his side. It might not have made much difference given the wreckage of the city, but if he did not want to see Anders dragged off in chains, there was no choice but to run. It had been the only time Anders had known Hawke to shirk his duty to his adopted homeland.

Any mention of Lothian put Hawke in a despondent mood, and Anders tried to distract the man from the loss.

"The landlord, he doesn't seem to mind the mice we've got."

Hawke gave a disgusted snort. They'd seen a mouse or two, running along the walls and Hawke had immediately gone out to fetch deathroot to make up poison. So far though, the little rodents had proved too smart to take the bait, no matter how much honey Hawke laced the deathly mix with.

"Shabby little hole, reminds me of Gamlen's shack." Hawke had resumed cleaning his daggers, and was polishing the blades with more force now, working the metal to a shine. "Thought I'd seen the last of windowless grubby pits."

Something had changed in Hawke's tone, something that reminded Anders of how Hawke would calmly inform gaggles of thieves or slavers that they were about to die. He shifted uncomfortably, and curled his hands around his cup.

"Its the smell I detest. Waking up every morning to feted air, knowing that when you go to sleep, it'll be surround by the same stale stinking lungfuls. I'm surprised we both haven't come down with some wretched disease..." Hawke didn't seem to be talking to Anders, more muttering to the dagger in his hands.

"Good thing you've a healer handy then..." Anders smiled, half forcing it.

"Didn't need a healer in Hightown..." Hawke was mumbling, still more to himself than to the mage. "You could count on the beds being clean, and the water drinkable... Didn't have to worry about getting leaks in the rain, or mice, or the locals finding out who you are..."

He sighed, and realised he had been rubbing the same area until the clothe had worn through. He put both dagger and rag down, much to Anders's relief. Hawke was never more dangerous than when armed.

"Still. We're here now, aren't we? No use grumbling."

Anders didn't reply. He almost said sorry, sorry that Hawke no longer had a mansion, or title, but the words seemed unsubstantial enough.

When not out looking for work, Hawke was often called in to do heavy manual labour. He could manage that, but would come home bone weary. A hot bath would have eased his muscles, but they barely had room for a basin, so Anders made do utilising his magic to sooth Mattias's tired body. No matter how hard the rogue worked, the coin was barely enough to cover rent and food. Anders would have helped, but his skills were largely magic based, and would have had him run out of town at pitchfork point. In typical grey warden fashion, he also was a miserable failure in the kitchen. After a quiet yet sharp observation that they really didn't have the money to afford so many burnt lumps at the bottom of stewpots, Anders agreed to stop trying to cook.

Unable to help, unable to even leave the house, Anders wondered if they were wise to remain.

"We could move on, try and find somewhere else?"

Hawke glanced up, and frowned.

"No. Travelling means leaving a trail. And we don't have the coin to barter passage, never mind pay for discretion."

"But.. If they are hanging mages out there... Is it safe to stay?"

Hawke took a heavy breath, and his lips tightened.

"Anders... They are hanging mages *everywhere*."

"No... That can't be. Why?"

"Because of you." Hawke's eyes narrowed to sharp points, "You destroyed a chantry, killed innocents. You 'showed them why mages are feared'. It is the same all over, so no matter where we went, we'd face the same fear and hate and anger."

Hawke turned away, and started to wrap his daggers up for storing under the bed. When he came back to the table, Anders had his head in his hands.

"It needed to be done." Anders spoke in a level voice, and whether he was trying to convince Hawke or himself, the rogue could not tell. "Mages would have suffered for years more if someone had not changed things. It was never going to be easy, and I knew that there would be deaths and carnage to follow... I do not regret what I did, only that you were caught up in it...Hawke, I am sorry."

Hawke sat down heavily, and observed the mage, trying to work out what he would say. Only sour words came to him, blaming Anders for being so short-sighted, and blind to the suffering he had caused.

Anders had been in a daze after the final battle, and had not seen Hawke and Bethany part ways. She was going to go back to the estate and try to gather some of their mother's things, as well as the money he had gathered and saved over the last seven years, and then meet them at the docks. He was too far away when the templars caught her, busy trying to guide Anders discreetly on board without anyone recognizing them. He could only watch, horrified as Bethany was forced to surrender, and knocked out by a sword hilt to the back of the head. Charging to her rescue would have put Anders at risk, and his heart felt like it might tear apart as he made his choice. It felt like losing her all over again, first to the circle, and now to the templars.

He did not know what the templars would do the sibling of the man who had killed their knight-commander, no matter how demented Meredith might have been. He did not care to think about torture, or tranquillity. Maybe Bethany was dead, that seemed the best fate he could hold out hope for.

Matthias realised that Anders was staring at him, and that own his hands were clenched. He shook his head, loose hair falling over his eyes, dispelling the thoughts of his sister. With effort, he relaxed his hands.

He'd become practised at forcing the painful past from his mind, locking it back somewhere it wouldn't reduce him to a despairing mess. When this time his memories would not go quietly back to the dark place inside his head, he decided he would have to distract himself to find peace. Teeth flashed as his lips split into a wide grin, and he gave Anders a playful nudge.

"I think that is quite enough heart-to-heart. Let's go mess up the bed sheets."


	2. Chapter 2

There were times Hawke missed his armour, its reassuring weight made him feel able to tackle almost anything when wrapped up in the finely crafted leather and steel. In the bedroom however, he could appreciate that much easier it was to disrobe when one did not have to worry about buckles and straps, and not catch skin on the sharp edge of a dagger or ornate end of a staff.

Anders sat on the bed, and pulled Hawke over, elegant fingers skimming over his chest. He crawled forward, and rolled the pair to the side, stroking a finger over Anders's lips, teasing till the man whimpered, before pulling the mage into a kiss. Anders pressed close, breathing heavily as if he needed the touch of Hawke's lips on his more than air. There was a hunger to the kiss, Hawke desperately distancing himself from the regrets that haunted him still. Anders too, probably needed to feel something other claustrophobia and revolutionary guilt.

Fingers held on to him, and Anders moaned, softly at first, then louder as Hawke continued his assault with tongue and teeth. With a great heaving gasp, Anders pulled away, pupils wide and black with arousal, a faint tremor shivering through his bones.

"Hawke.." He breathed, catching breath before returning the fevered kissing, licking and nibbling down the line of Hawke's jaw, moving down to the flesh of his neck. Hawke craned his head upwards, to give better access. As the light brushes of teeth grew bolder, he wrapped arms around the mage, rolling so that Anders lay on top of him. There was no doubt Anders would be able to feel the heat from his groin, but the blonde was preoccupied with admiring the board expanse of chest beneath him.

Working in fields had granted him a healthy tan, and his form was toned and sleek. Anders ran a single fingernail down his mid line, Hawke arching into the sensation, and with a sly smirk, bent his head to lay a series of soft, almost worshipping kisses down over his ribcage. Hawke meant to only brush a stray wisp of hair back from his lover's face, but found his hand sliding in behind the tight little ponytail, and with a gentle push, urge Anders downwards.

Eyes glanced up, and met with his own. There was a brief moment of uncertainty, then the mage broke into a warm smile, dipping head down and breathing across the fabric of his smalls. It took all his discipline for Hawke not to claw his hands into Anders skull, as the mage started to nudge his nose, then cheek across the growing bulge. When he heard a soft chuckle emanating from the mage, he tossed his head back and panted, caught between demanding more and revealing in the delicious tingle building within him.

He lifted his hips from the bed, and Anders hooked fingers over the band of the smalls, dragging them with a tortuous pace down his thighs. There were cast off along with their other clothes to the floor of the bedroom, and the blonde mage quickly removed his own underthings. He lay against Hawke's side, letting the rogue feel every twist and flex of his body as he positioned himself over the head of the engorged flesh before him. Hot air from Anders's mouth, the promise, overcame him, and he felt his manhood pulse with anticipation. Breathing heavy, with just a hint of a growl at being teased so thoroughly, Hawke felt his hand close around the back of Anders's head.

Even if Anders's wanted to protest, his mouth was stuffed full in the next moment. Hawke dragged great lungfuls of air in between gritted teeth, and letting the slick heat slip around his cock. He ought to have paused, given Anders a chance to catch up mentally, but the whisper of what he was trying so hard to forget clawed at his mind. With a desperate need, he slammed Anders fully down. The mage gagged, and struggled to draw breath, but the fluttering of his throat, and the way he shook in alarm drove all coherence from the rogue. He started a punishing pace, bringing his other hand up to also tangle in the blonde hair, hips jerking as Anders swallowed more and more of his length. There were fingernails in his hips, and a low panicked noise in the air, but in his efforts to let the moment claim him, he ignored Anders's discomfort.

With a final howl, he felt himself release, and looked to see Anders gasping around his hardness. His seed was dribbling down, the mage unable to breath and swallow at the same time.

He wasn't sure what prompted him to tighten his grip in the blonde hair, and give a meaningful shake. He did not let go, not until Anders had looked up, seen the disapproving scowl darkening his face, and then, meekly, started to lick up the spilled pearly fluid.

Hawke felt the tongue cleanse him, and was satisfied, sinking into the mattress and letting both hands fall to his sides. All thoughts of Kirkwall and the tragedy of his adopted city settled into the recesses of his skull, and he felt peace wash the anger and tension from his body.

Anders crawled up the bed, holding himself up on his arms and keeping a distance, wary. Hawke blinked, slowly, and reached to stroke a hand across Anders's cheek.

"You are wonderful."

those words, and the slow gentle kiss that followed, undid Anders's disapproval at the greedy rough treatment he'd suffered. He conceded to be lost to the soft press of lips, of fingers caressing the line of his jaw, of a tongue lapping carefully, eagerly, against his. Hawke could smell his own scent on Anders's breath, which only encouraged him to press harder, firmer with his tongue, chasing the taste deep into Anders's mouth.

Hawke's hand snaked down, the rogue twisting his hips to avoid brushing against sensitised, spent flesh. Between murmurs of how beautiful Anders's was, Hawke whispering each word with a breathy sincerity, fingers enclosed around the mage's length. Hawke grinned as he swallowed Anders's gasp, as the tight circle of his hand deliberately slid up the rigid shaft. Working his jaw in increasingly hungry kisses, he laid claim to the mage's mouth. Moaning softly at the sight of the mage's half-lidded eyes, struggling to focus. The rogue moved both tongue and hand together, a leisurely rhythm, intent on coaxing the increasingly disinhibited noises of pleasure from his lover.

His own need stated, he took his time, admiring the way Anders would catch the more vocal of his utterances in his throat, only for the pleas to escape as a wicked fingertip flicked under the ridge of the heated shaft. He could feel the heartbeat under him, hammering, pounding through flesh.

By the time Anders was reaching his peak, he was reduced to incoherent grunts and cries, hips jerking into the tight grasp of Hawke's hand, stubble and mouth clumsy roaming against Hawke's chin. Delving into the warm intimacy of the mage's mouth, sucking at the tongue offered to him, Hawke gave those last few pumps, well versed in the way Anders would arch and stiffen as release took him. As Anders slumped, Hawke moved to run his tongue down the sweat-slick skin of the huffing chest. He took in the salt and musk, and then dragged a blanket over them, wrapped in each others embrace.

Listening to the mage's breaths slow, Hawke held him close. He was reminded of how good it felt to have him here with him, that sometimes the man was more than a revolutionary, and an apostate, and possibly an abomination waiting to happen. He was his lover.

Hawke gently stroked against the stubble of the chin resting on his chest, and smiled. He'd already lost so much, he knew he would not give up on Anders.

* * *

><p>Anders woke, and carefully detangled himself from Hawke's draped and heavy arm. He gathered his discarded shirt, and slid it over his head, and collected his trousers. Leaving the bedroom, which, in fairness, was just a room with a bed in it, he shut the door, so that the jangle of belt buckles would not disturb the soundly sleeping rouge.<p>

He gave an attempt to use the flint to encourage the sparks to take to the fireplace, but after a series of sleepy scratches at the stone, he summoned a small fireball and launched it into the nestled logs and ash.

As he set a kettle over the flame, and tossed the tea leaves in, he reflected on the night before.

Hawke had been rough, and whilst the actual experience had hurt, to the point his jaw ached even now, Anders could not dismiss the look of adoration in his lovers eyes. It had inflamed him, burning through all feelings of discomfort. It had been reassuring to be looked on as a man to be desired, and not an abomination. In truth, it had also been arousing, to be manhandled, to be forced to comply. There were elements he thought he and Hawke could explore, as long as the rogue learnt some rules about not pushing so hard it caused him to gag.

He poured himself a cup of tea, and settled into one of the kitchen chairs.

If he hadn't trusted Hawke, he suspected it might have gone badly. Justice could have decided that the rogue was a threat, and reacted. Anders frowned, and realised that even as he had grown light-headed for lack of breath, Justice had not even stirred. Unusual, as the spirit had a protective streak for his host, as well as a penchant for poor timing.

Not for the first time, Anders wondered if Justice was reconsidering their actions in Kirkwall.

Destroying the chantry, and those inside, had seemed to be the best course to move the mage uprising into a reality, and Anders had not been so naive to thing that it would be a victimless revolution. Hearing about the hangings though, brought the actual cost into sharp focus, and the guilt was slowly creeping and curling round his heart. It was a heavy weight, and with little else to do but remember and dwell, he knew he was beginning to obsess over it.

During his time in Darktown, and then later sharing a room at Hawke's estate, he'd relied on Justice's uncompromising voice to guide him. The spirit had a unshakable conviction that more than eased his own doubts and concerns, and he took strength from the spirit's presence. Now though, justice had become quiet and sullen. It was unlike the spirit to hold back his opinion, but lately it seemed harder to hear Justice or make out the alien thoughts within his head. Even the little things, like constantly criticising Hawke or wondering at the multitude of odd human habits, were absent.

He could feel the spirit inside, but trying to make contact was difficult, like wading through mud. There was a barrier, one Justice must have put up himself. If he didn't know better, he would have thought Justice sleeping.

Without being able to hear him, it was hard to guess at Justice's frame of mind. Perhaps Justice was battling with the repercussions of starting a war, or weighting up whether freeing all magi was wroth the increased violence to mages until the scales of power shifted. The spirit may have even decided to listen to Hawke, for once, and lay low for Anders's safety. There was no way to be sure, until Justice decided to reemerge, and for the moment, it seemed like the spirit was in no hurry to reestablish contact.

Anders felt empty inside, but at least Hawke seemed in a much better mood.

Leaving Kirkwall and the name he had made for himself had been hard on the champion, and Anders still was grateful that Hawke had chosen to spare him, even continue their relationship, whilst the city tore itself to pieces around them. Though Hawke's decision had surprised the mage, he had never faltered, standing by Anders's side, even as the templars rushed to cut down every mage in sight.

Anders sometimes felt that he did not deserve Hawke.

So it was difficult to bring up his need for air, for something to *do*. He was going crazy staring at the same bare walls, and without Justice for company, the times that Hawke was away working passed deathly slow. He made countless cups of tea, and had read every book Hawke had managed to bring twice through. He had began to doze through the day, waking only when Hawke reappeared. He seemed forever listless though, no matter how much he slept. He put it down to boredom, but knew that without purpose, he would surely start to unravel.

* * *

><p>"I miss my clinic."<p>

Hawke rubbed his eyes, and yawned.

"I miss my estate, what of it?"

"I miss healing, miss the feeling of doing something good. Maybe... if the townspeople could see that magic can be used to mend it might start to change their minds...?"

Hawke, shirtless, and in the process of tracking down his boots for yet another day helping Harriold clearing stones from the patch of land he was trying to reclaim as a field, fixed Anders with a chilly glare.

"That is a terrible idea. Not as bad as setting off bombs in a chantry, but pretty high up the list." There was not enough humour in the words, something clipped and bitter underneath the tone.

"Hawke, I know I did something terrible, but I can at least try and help. I feel like I am losing my mind, sitting here doing nothing while mages out there are suffering. I should be showing people that magic isn't evil. It worked in Darktown, the folks there trusted me, and my magic. It could work here..."

Hawke shook his head, pulling his boots on.

"Anders... things have changed. I can not let you put yourself in danger. You show the town that you are a mage, and they will try to kill you. No reasoning with them, or a chance to talk. Just you and me, on the run... again."

Hawke looked at Anders, and knew this was going to be an issue. The mage had practically lived in the clinic, working himself to exhaustion most nights, until Hawke invited him to move in to his own mansion.

"I'll..." Hawke hesitated, seeing how Anders looked at him with a desperate pleading. "I'll see what I can do. See you when I get back." His tone was kept unhopeful, but could not avoid seeing Anders's eyes light up. He went off to work, trying to figure out how he was to keep Anders safe, when the mage seemed intent on flaunting magic to a town filled with people, their minds closed and heads full of tales of burning chantries, and blood magic, and fear.

Anders had curled under the sheets, and was half asleep when Hawke came in.

* * *

><p>"Get your cloak, we've got work to do."<p>

Anders turned from Hawke's insistent shaking, and grumbled into the blankets.

"Come on, you wanted to heal, I've got you a patient. A kid, with something wrong with his arm. I've got him waiting in one of the side streets outside the tavern. Let us go before he gets fed up waiting."

Anders became a rush of motion, and was heading out the door, even as he fastened the heavy woollen cloak over his shoulder. The weather outside was a grey drizzle, able to soak the air and haze the view. He pulled the hood up, to Hawke's approval, and they set off.

The boy was nervous, like a trapped animal, and Hawke approached first. He bend down on a knee, a surprisingly touching gesture for the man who had little time for children usually. He chatted quietly to the boy, in reassuring platitudes, then gestured for Anders to come forwards. The boy looked Anders up and down, then pulled out his left arm, holding it out.

The bone had been broken, and set at the wrong angle. The hand was already thinner, and Anders could tell that the boy would not be able to do much with those twisted fingers. The limb would be stiff, and painful for the child, and Anders silently praised Hawke with finding such an excellent candidate for showing the good that magic could be used for. It would only take a few minutes, but by the end the boy would have close to full use of his arm and hand, and much less pain. Anders smiled and held his hands out to touch on the boy's arm.

His hands started to glow, and the boy screamed, jerking away violently. Anders looked up, and tried to hold the arm still so the magic could start to work.

Like a feral cat, the boy twisted and clawed at the mage, screaming with all the air in his lungs. Hawke, an expression of shock, moved forwards and with a wince, cuffed the boy round the back of the head. Eyes rolled back, and he slumped, and the rogue lowered him down carefully in the alley.

"Why'd you do that? I could have made him sleep if you wanted him quiet."

"I think you have done enough magic!" Hawke replied bitterly, and started to walk away, head scanning for anyone the boy's cries might have alerted.

Anders bent to the fallen form, and could not shake the look of terror he witnessed in the boy's wide eyes. He took a deep breath, and started again to summon the magics that would straighten bone and ensure Hawke hadn't done any damage to the blow to the head. Hawke spun angrily, as he saw what Anders was doing.

"Idiot! We have to get out of here, before someone comes!"

"Let me at least do what we came for..." Anders whispered, even as the magic flowed through his body.

"No! No time." Hawke grasped Anders by the shoulder, and having to actually pull him from the boy, managed to get both of them out of the side alley. Anders was heavy, numb, and Matthais had to physically walk the mage back to their home, all the time his dark eyes looking to see if they had been seen. The rain did them a service, the streets were bare, and their footprints dissolved quickly.


	3. Chapter 3

Hawke shut the door, and let Anders shuffle to a chair. The mage had the same dazed look clouding over his face as when they had fled Kirkwall. Hopefully, the experience would show him some sense.

The boy's reaction, had not been entirely unexpected, not after Hawke had told him tales that would have made Varric proud. Of how mages would pull bone from flesh in order to set them properly, and that magic felt like liquid fire to the touch. Not to worry though, little one, his friend was a normal healer, nice and safe. He'll have a little look at your arm, and see if he can't maybe give you something to help. I'll go fetch him now, if you like, and you can go home after and show your parents. What a nice surprise that will be...

The boy had been understandably dubious of Hawke's promise, but the rogue had smiled, and with a wink mentioned that he would not tell anyone about the loaf of bread he'd seen the boy lift from a windowsill.

Anders's had started to heave in great breaths, and Hawke looked to see his eyes glisten with the promise of tears.

"Did you see his face...? The way he looked at me...? I've never seen someone so terrified... "

Hawke said nothing, instead moved to pull the sodden wool from Anders's shoulders. He hung it, as well as his own, by the fire, though he doubted the embers would have the cloaks dry by morning.

"I know how Merrill must have felt now... To see such fear when you are only trying to help... I was only trying to help..." Anders's voice was low, and his eyes downcast.

Merrill had wept openly when Pol had run from her, straight into the waiting elfish monster. Hawke had shook the elf, and only just managed to get her to focus on the creature now turning its attention to them. After the battle, she had knelt by the fallen elf, stroking his hair and asking how this could have happened. At the time Anders had been unsympathetic, blaming her blood magic for invoking such fear and hatred. Now, he wore the same look of despair.

Hawke laid a hand on his shoulder, and sighed.

"Merrill did not listen when I tried to help. She went ahead anyway and tried to fix that blasted mirror, and look what happened... Her clan turned against her, and we had to slaughter them all... Magic can bring out the very worst in people, and I would save you from their ignorance. And your own."

Placing both hands on the shoulders, which offered no resistance, Hawke turned Anders to face him.

"Your magic puts you at risk. What you are, what you have done, these things will make you a target. So to keep you from harm, you have to stay out of sight. I will keep you safe, but I need you to promise me that you'll not court your death out there... I do not know what I would do if anything happened to you, so you must make me a promise to not go out there again."

Anders, still remembering the sound of the boy's screams, and slowly nodded.

"I promise." he said.

* * *

><p>Hawke had declared that Harriold could scrape hands to pieces lifting rocks on his own, and that the former champion would take a well deserved day off. Partly to give his aching back and shoulders a break from the arduous and repetitive work, but mostly so that he could keep an eye on the mage.<p>

Anders had not slept well, tossing and turning. Like a shadow, Hawke had got up, made a cup of tea and pushed it into the mage's hands. It seemed to help somewhat, and Anders had thanked him quietly before turning to his side and closing his eyes. Hawke, after watching Anders's settle into sleep, crept from the bedroom.

Finally managing to pull a promise to stay undercover from the mage had been like seeing first sunlight after being trapped in the Deeproads. It felt good, to know that at last, Anders would be safe. That Anders seemed suitably shocked at the reaction to his magic meant that Hawke could believe that there would be no sneaking midnight excursions, or any further requests to go out.

The problem with Justice too, seemed to have been settled. He'd not seen spark or flare of the spirit, and was gladdened by this. The lyrium and mild-narcotic blend he had mixed with Anders's tea seemed to be doing a fine job in both keeping Anders chemically content and Justice suppressed. While the Deathroot had been fairly easy to come by, sourcing the lyrium had been a long overdue piece of luck. He'd been chatting to one of the hired hands, who made mention that the increased numbers of wandering templars, those without chantries or on the hunt for the mass of escaped magi, meant that a body could make a small fortune selling the powder. Black market trade had soared due to demand, and after a couple of evenings making quiet enquiries, Hawke found a seller. In exchange for a whole week's wages, and information on where the half-Dalish could find lyrium desposits near Kirkwall, he was granted a small share of the current stash, with a promise of more should his source prove significant. The lyrium he'd gained was more than enough to spike the tea, slowly at first so that Anders did not suspect. Being a rouge and spending quite so much time fetching and carrying for Tomwise the poisoner had paid off, and he was pleased at his success in crafting an anti-Justice drug.

If he had thought of it sooner, when Anders was talking about a potion to separate the man from the fade spirit, perhaps things would not have turned out quite so badly. He had the gift of a silver tongue, and had managed to conduct civil conversations with both Meredith and Orsino. He might have been able to bring the two to truce, without pushing Orsino to blood magic, or inciting Meredith to lyrium-idol fuelled madness. He might even have managed to achieve the throne, if Anders had not seen fit to enlist his help in making a world-shattering bomb.

He had trusted the mage when he had asked for aid in gathering ingredients, and not thought to question why the mage needed into the chantry. He'd imagined that Anders was going to 'borrow' some aged relic or magical toenail or some such thing, and since Anders had never once commented on his looting of every single body they came across or produced, he didn't feel it his place to challenge.

If only he'd thought to drug Justice out of the equation sooner, he could be sitting in the lofty position of viscount, Anders at his side, the mage protected by the city by his command. Together they could have made Kirkwall a sanctuary for magi, given them the freedoms that Anders felt they deserved. He could have used the influence he'd fought so hard to gain, risked his life time and time again fighting the city's enemies and threats, to rise to his rightful place. Had he not defeated the raging Arishok in single combat? Had he not tracked down mad blood mage after blood mage? Surely after all that, he deserved some recognition.

Instead, he was stuck in some ratspit town, where he could not even use his given name. Fearful that the people would one day turn on the outsider and the mage he haboured. To save an utter massacre of the townsfolk, the best he could do was to keep Anders hidden.

He might have destroyed a chantry, and he might have singlehandledly instigated a war between every mage and templar in the lands, and he might even have a warped spirit of Justice dwelling inside his skull, but he was Anders, and Hawke would be damned before he let everything he sacrificed to keep Anders safe go to waste.

* * *

><p>When Anders woke and came through to the kitchen, Hawke was sitting by the dead embers of the fire, a steely look of determination set into his eyes. The rogue could have an air of intensity like a magical storm, when thinking, and Anders often liked to watch the man when he was deep in thought.<p>

"I think you might have to resort to the flint... You've not a spark of magic in you, and the fire will not light just because you will it..." Anders leaned against the doorframe, as Hawke blinked and looked up, smiling to see the mage in such good form. Sleep, it seemed, could restore humour to the most devastated mage.

"Will you do the honours then, oh great and powerful mage?"

Anders set the fire to light with a flame burst, then squinted his eyes at Hawke. "You usually do not encourage magic in the homestead..." He noted.

"...as long as you do not burn the place down." Hawke chuckled, but the implication caused Anders to stop halfway through filling the kettle for his usual morning mug of tea.

"I can control my magic." Anders's voice was cold, clipped and Hawke crossed his arms.

"...really?" He challenged, and they stared each other down, while the fire started to warm the sudden chill in the air. "And I suppose the singe marks on my armour were just for show?" Anders grimaced, remembering that particular day. They'd been caught by a group of carta thugs, while Hawke was walking Anders home from the clinic so that the mage actually got some sleep that week. Hawke had been annoyed at the stray fireball, that had bounced off of his new armour and into a nearby wall. He'd been unhurt, and the dwarves dealt with, but he had voiced his disgruntlement all the way back to the estate. The sooty mark had never quite cleaned off.

"That is different, in the heat of battle, when you insisted on disappearing and reappearing without warning, it was hard *not* to accidentally hit you." Anders realised they were speaking in the past tense when talking about fights and armour, and after such skirmishes being so deeply integrated into every waking day, it was hard to accept that part of their life was finally over.

"How careless of me to actually get close to those who were trying to kill us. Must have been nice, standing at the back watching me take down our foes." when Hawke spoke of the past, it was usually in fond tones, as if he missed the constant blood and blades. Now though, there was no warmth to his voice.

"I'll have you know, I 'took down' just as many thieves as you... Why, just one of my firestorms cleared a whole nest of thralled thieves."

"And yet you say magic is not dangerous?" Hawke raised a brow, and leant back. Anders started, then scowled, annoyed that Hawke was trying to use his words against him.

"I thought we were.. 'talking'.. About control, not the inherent danger?" Anders could feel the air grow tense, sense Hawke's usual jibes about magic and his preoccupation with the plight of magi take on a sinster edge. He knew it'd be best to change the topic, but he was too pent up, too much in need of an outlet to allow Hawke to twist his words without comment.

"Is there really that much of a difference?"

"Yes! Magic can be dangerous, I'll admit that. But it doesn't mean I have no control."

Hawke regarded the mage, and then, in a low voice.

"Sometimes you may be able to control your magic... But sometimes you have no control over yourself..."

Anders's memories automatically went back to the day when Hawke had shouted for Justice to stand down, yet the enraged spirit still had driven a staff through the chest of a helpless circle mage, on the ground and pleading for her life. They'd been trying to save her from templars, from tranquility, and somehow it had all gone wrong. Justice had broken through, raging, and the next thing Anders was aware of was pulling his staff from the ground, and seeing the mage Ella slump to the ground.

Anders had run from the scene, and cast the bloodied staff over the railing in Darktown. He's retreated to his clinic, but been unable to work, beside himself with anguish. Justice had not properly understood, the spirit trying to understand grief and regret through his host, but not being able to see beyond the 'greater justice' they fought for. That their actions could have been wrong did not feature into his thinking, and part of Anders had wondered at the time whether he was becoming less human, with the fade spirit slowly starting to meld into his own being.

Anger and guilt, and annoyance that Hawke would bring up such a painful memory, flooded through Anders. Seeing the rogue smirking proudly that he'd 'won' the argument, caused his mouth to twist into a scowl. He had no idea of the hurt he had caused, forcing Anders's to relive one of the biggest regrets in his life.

"Why do you stay then?" his normally gental jovial voice hissed like escaping air, "If you have an ounce of sense, why waste your time with a dangerous apostate mage?"

Hawke stood, graceful, having the nerve to grin wide. He crossed over the floor, and brushed a hand against Anders's cheek, strong fingers scrapping against stubble.

"Because you are *my* dangerous apostate mage..." He purred, and leaned in to kiss against Anders's cheek. The mage turned away angrily, too riled to be taken in with Hawke's easy grace and enticing voice. Normally, he'd been concentrating on keeping his breathing steady, forcing himself to keep control. When he felt no surge of Justice's domineering essence however, he did not see the need to keep calm.

He flinched when Hawke reached for him, and only just caught the moment when Hawke smirk faded and eyes narrowed. The rogue's entire face darkened, and he reached again, this time at speed. Anders felt his shirt sleeve tighten as nimble fingers closed in on the rough fabric.

"Don't you get moody with me..." There was a threatening tone that Anders had not heard Hawke use before, and it scared him how it caused him to freeze in response. Hawke took a step forwards, so that they stood chest to chest, eyes blazing. He must had then recognized the intimidating stance he'd adopted, or seen the outright fear reflected in Anders's eyes, because he then let his posture relax. He let out a heavy breathe, and looked to Anders, almost apologetic.

"I... That was a bit sharp of me... " He brightened, as if he had not just brought up Anders's murder of a mage in passing, or threatened the mage outright. "Come on, let's kiss and make up."

Apologies have never come easy to the rouge, and while Anders was used to sex being used as a way to make amends, he was in no state of mind for the closeness that Hawke was trying to initiate.

"No... I'm not in the mood."

Hawke paused, honestly taken aback by Anders's response. That carefully constructed grin, lopsided and practised, died on his lips, and Hawke glared at the mage.

"... What?" that tone again, the one that carried all the menace of a qunari Arishok.

Anders found his mouth suddenly dry, and he shook his head, turning so he did not have to see the dangerous flare of anger in the rogue's eyes.

His sleeve was released, and Hawke, with a fearful amount of hardly suppressed rage, gathered his cloak and boots. He said nothing as he put on the thick leather and still damp wool, leaving Anders to hover uncertainly at the doorframe.

"Where..." Anders spoke in a soft voice, that still seemed too loud in the silence that filled the room, pushing out all air. "Where are you going?"

Hawke rose to his feet, and stalked towards the door, footfalls heavy with his temper.

"Don't wait up." he said, and slammed the door shut.

* * *

><p>It had promised to be a good day. Justice was dealt with, Anders was safe, and he'd taken a day off of work to spend some time with his mage. He'd been looking forward to it, not just the inevitable love making, but also just being near Anders, running hands through his hair, watching him speak. Somehow though, Anders had managed to ruin it, and now, three beers later, Hawke was still clenching and unclenching his fists.<p>

The barman, who had started to recognize Hawke (as Marsellion, but recognition none the less), came over and gave a small polite cough. Hawke looked up, trying to coax himself to smile.

"You been scowling at the floor since you got in, and I reckon beer just ain't going cut through your woes. Here, its a bit stronger than the ale..." The barkeep offered a dark bottle, and nearly clean glass. Hawke eyed it, then put his hand into his pocket, not wanting to offend but also not really wishing to sample whatever moonshine the barkeep had produced.

"Nah, you keep your coin. You've been working the fields hard by all accounts, and you've tipped generously. It's rubbing off on the other patrons, so I reckons I owe you a little something in gratitude. Enjoy Mars, and don't let whatevers got you down keep you there."

Hawke reached for the bottle, and pulled the cork. The smell stung his nose, and he would have normally turned the bottle into a gutter, but the idea that he'd earned a sort of respect, and friendship with the barstaff had pleased him. He decided its be a shame to waste such a gift, and sloshed the liquid into the glass.

Whether the beer had numbed his senses, or his time away from the luxuries he enjoyed in his Kirkwall estate had dulled his palate, it seemed the liquid was not so terrible as he had feared. It burned, certainly, and tasted almost entirely of alcohol, but it was drinkable. Or, if not exactly drinkable, the sharp tang at least took away the sour taste of his continuing rage. Finishing the first, Hawke leaned back, and poured himself another.

He should have known better than to engage Anders in discussions about magic. The mage was impossible to reason with on the subject. Even when Hawke had lost his mother to the bloodmage madman, Anders's first reaction, after creeping into his bedroom on the eve, was to assure him that not all magi were so demented. At the time, for the sake of the blonde apostate, he'd agreed, pushing aside his despair and sheer disbelief at what had occurred. For the sake of his mage, he had strove to see that not every mage was a power-hungry abomination waiting to happen. He'd given Merrill the benefit of the doubt, and granted permission to use that damnable mirror, and then had to watch as her keeper warped and twisted into a demon. He'd watched as his sister had moved the rocks underfoot, and shake the earth, and then trusted that the circle would keep her safe. That she'd at least be protected from the madness of the city, and the seemingly endless bloodmages and demons inhabiting it. Then with a sickening sense of betray bare witness to the first enchanter grow grotesque and blood-thirsty.

Mages were dangerous, but maker take him, he was not about to let Anders become yet another that he would be forced to watch become a monster. He'd claim the mage, so that no other demon could. He had beaten the fade spirit down, he could challenge any other threat. He would go home, and show Anders that apostate or not, he was loved. That there was no need to turn to dark magics, not when Hawke was there willing to butcher any and all threats that stood between them.

He'd lost count of how many of the deceptively small glasses he'd drank, but his mind was set. Rising to his feet, and laying a couple of coins on the table, Hawke started to walk back home.


	4. Chapter 4

By late afternoon Anders had already decided to offer his apologies for letting the conversation of the morning get so badly out of hand. Seeing such a look on his lover's face had been terrible, and the mage had sat and ruminated on how he could have spoken better, without causing Hawke to have to storm off. There was a small voice nagging at the back of his head, that suggested Hawke was not entirely blameless, but he discounted that as some whisper of Justice, and elected to ignore it. It irritated him that Justice would not speak with himself directly anymore, just feed slow tickling notions and doubts into his stream of conscience.

The door opened, and Anders rose to his feet to greet Hawke. He could smell the tavern on the man, and the strong daylight behind him caused him to furrow his brow in concern. Hawke however, stumbled in, and closed the door behind him, shutting off the light.

"Anders... " He was not quite slurring as he spoke, but Hawke's head bobbed, displacing long dark hair as he observed the mage. It felt uncomfortable, to be stared at, *leered* at in such a manner, and Anders was shocked at Hawke's drunken state, so early in the day.

Hawke stumbled forwards, and narrowed missed falling into the firepit. Anders caught him, and the rouge wrapped arms around him to keep himself upright. Trapped in the tight embrace, Anders tried to keep Hawke's weight from dragging them both to the floor. Hawke righted himself, with a couple of clumsy steps, still clutching to Anders, and grinned.

"Anders..." He repeated, this time slurring the s. He dipped forwards in a wide-mouthed kiss, and Anders caught the scent of something strongly pungent on Hawke's breath.

He turned his head, deciding that in this sort of mood, Hawke was best put to bed with a jug of water. He was surprised when a hand closed round the back of his head, and held him as Hawke planted a wet kiss against his cheek.

"Want you... Now." it was a voice thick with lust, and Anders suddenly realized that Hawke was hard against him, a low growl reverberating with each breath.

"You are drunk." Anders stated, realising with a start quite how tight he was held in Hawke's arms.

"Still want you..."

The mage thought frantically, back to the many times he'd wriggled from grasping templars during his numerous escape attempts. There was no move that would free himself, that would not cause Hawke some injury to some extent. He could heal any damage, but that was hardly the point. Likewise, Anders could not fight against Hawke's raw strength, and any spell that would grant his freedom would have to be brutal, and aimed squarely against his lover. He couldn't do it, not even as Hawke, with an animalistic growl, dragged him down hard against the floor, clambering over him and pinning him down.

He started to shout, various pleas and attempts to get the man on top of him to halt, to stop and see that Anders did not want this. Not like this, when Hawke was besotted with alcohol, and having to hold down the mage. Not when Hawke was ripping his trousers from him.

With a savage furiousity, Hawke pressed down, letting Anders hear heartbeat, thundering and loud, and the heat radiating from the rogue. There was a high pitched whine, and Anders only realised it was his own as Hawke scowled at him.

"Stop that." he said, and Anders somehow managed to silence his protests, Hawke's fierce eyes and bared teeth scaring him. His eyes squeezed shut, as Hawke's clumsy attempts to push down his breeches finally succeeded. Rolls of fabric were bunched down around his knees, and he could feel the floor, hard and cold beneath him.

He writhed.

Hawke, seemed vaguely amused at the mage's struggles, and caught his mouth again into another wet, loose kiss. Anders clamped his mouth firmly shut, and used his chin to push back Hawke's adventuring tongue.

He jerked, as Hawke reached down, and tapped against his smalls. Too well conditioned at the feel of Hawke against him for his body to resist, he knew that Hawke would feel the beginnings of an erection under the cloth. Spurred on, Hawke rolled his hips against the mage, crushing him against the floor, licking his lips hungrily.

"You might say you don't want this, but look at you, hard as stone..."

Try as he might, he could not stop the slow sensation of Hawke rubbing *there*, and Anders flushed to think of himself put in such a position. It did not help that this, beneath the haze of alcohol and reminiscent traces of anger from the morning's argument, was Hawke. Warm Hawke, brave Hawke, protecting and sure. His heart could not deny the man, and his body was certainly reacting to the way Hawke was holding him, thrusting against him. He wanted to resist, but he also wanted to give in. Desperately, he reached for Justice's guiding voice, knowing that the spirit would give him the strength to refuse Hawke's drunken advances. There was only silence in his mind, followed by another soft whimper, as Hawke stretched his underclothes to the side. A finger, dry, calloused and clumsy, was pressing underneath against his backside, and he arched from it. A reedy thin noise of pain, as flesh gave way, and Hawke's hand curled around his skin as his normally dextrous digit failed to seek out Anders's knot of nerves. Rough, much too rough, too fast, and painful as fingernails dug in to try and give the probing digit purchase. Hawke seemed blind to the suffering he was causing Anders, swaying atop him, pushing his finger in deep.

Anders whimpered in pain, as his entrance burned.

"I said to stop making that noise..." Hawke growled.

Emptiness, and the burning stopped as Hawke pulled back suddenly, and then there was a crack. Pain, shocking after so many days without the scuffles that had become almost habitual.

Hawke regarded his own fist, curling his other hand over where knuckle had connected with lip. Anders stared, then lifted his own hand to his face, and felt the heat emanating from the tender flesh. His lip swelled, and he looked to Hawke for explanation, aghast that the man would have ever hit out at him.

The blow broke the spell. With a grunt of effort, Anders shoved against Hawke's chest, tipping the man to the side. Sluggish to react, Hawke landed heavily, his hands too slow to catch himself. Anders scrabbled to his feet, and grabbed a pair of shoes and his cloak, not even stopping to put them on. He was too intent on getting out of there, away from *him*.

"You need time to cool down Hawke. Cool down and sober up." his voice was quickened by his fear, and he closed the door before Hawke could order him to stop.

* * *

><p>It was evening, and chilly. He braced himself against a nearby wall to pull his shoes on, and then fastened his cloak more securely round his neck. He took a longing look behind him, then decided to make himself scarce in case Hawke came storming out to find him.<p>

Hawke was a force to be reckoned with on the battlefield, cutting down countless thousands with his daggers. He'd watch him stand, bloodied and grinning, then leap into yet another fight. The former champion of Kirkwall had taunted a high dragon, and gloated an Arishok into charging, sometimes giving the appearance of a man who'd lost his mind. Yet, Anders had never had cause to fear the man.

Hawke was a master at controlling himself. Even when furious, he could conduct himself with a civil tongue and get the job done, no matter what sleazy lowlife he had to deal with. He had morals too, and when a line was crossed, would not hesitate to cut down those who traded in slaves, or dabbled in blood magic. His moral quams did seem to fluctuate depending on the coin offered... but he could be forgiven for that when he mostly would do the right thing, no matter what cave of spiders or dragons stood in the way. Generally, Hawke could be counted to keep a clear head and steady temper. This side of Hawke, this angry and violent creature, was unexpected and unnerving.

Now that the initial rush of having to escape had eased, he could feel the tell-tale prickling of Justice, the spirit unintelligible save for the emotion he could sense rattling within his head. Justice was furious, but something was preventing him from acting, from taking full possession of the body he shared. Anders was briefly aware that should Justice actually gain control, the fade spirit would be keen to have Hawke answer for his actions, and could just tell that would not go well.

"Calm." he said, quietly to himself, "Hawke was not responsible. He'd had too much to drink, blame the alcohol..."

Justice was not to be appeased by such an explanation, and a fresh wave of rage, and helplessness, and then anger at not being able to act followed. Anders, taking deep, Justice-controlling breaths, wondered if his knowledge that Justice would likely end up attempting to attack Hawke, should he achieve any form of command, was allowing him to keep Justice in check. Hawke was fast, and could dodge most assaults, but in his current state, a lightening bolt would rip through his unarmored body.

Justice, already fading to a dull nagging sensation, applauded the thought of using magic against the rogue. Anders stamped his foot angrily at the spirit's desire to harm his lover, no matter how much of a brute he'd been in the last hour.

"That is not justice! We'll do no such thing." he snapped angrily, his voice raising above his usual self-muttering.

"Mister... You all right?"

Anders turned, and met eyes with the boy with the off-set arm. The boy, mouth agape, forced a scream from the lips. Heads of the few locals finishing up their business in the town before nightfall, turned. One of the faces, rather than focusing on Anders, who was now backing away carefully, looked to the boy and tutted loudly.

"Pipe down Damule, what you yelling at? Sorry Serrah, the boy's a trouble maker. Likes to go about causing a fuss..."

The boy, Damule, ran up to the man berating him, and pointed urgently.

"That's the mage! I wasn't lying, that's him there! His hands were aglow, and he was going to summon a demon into me, I swear!"

The townsfolk, who had started to gather to the commotion, jerked away as if pushed. Accusing eyes narrowed on Anders, who held up his hands peacefully.

"I... I am a healer. I was going to fix his arm..."

"You're a mage!" the man, now standing between Anders and the boy protectively, pointed a finger.

Too late it occurred that he could have lied, but that sort of instinct came more naturally to Hawke than himself. Besides, he hated to think what Justice's opinion of a mage who denied his abilities would be.

"Yes..." He said slowly, watching as the crowd widened further at the confession, "But a healer. I use magic to help heal people... "

"Magic is a sign of the accursed, of those who brought the blight to the lands." one of the crowd muttered, only to be nudged from the similarly aged woman at her side.

"Yourself has been healed before. Back when the water got so deep into your lungs you could hardly breath. Mayhap a healer ain't such cursed."

Anders allowed himself to take a small, nervous breath of relief as the townpeople considered this, muttered to each other about the travelling healer elf who had come two summers ago and cured much of the afflictions brought to her. She took coin, it seemed, but was not unreasonable in what she had charged.

Then, like the fall of a sword, someone said "The monster-mage who murdered the high cleric Elthina was a healer..."

It was not a direct accusation, but it was enough to make the people rethink about how harmless a healer mage might be. The man standing over Damule, set his jaw.

"Winnie, go and fetch through Ser Aggie. Wake her up if you have to. Now you, mage, you just stay put till the templar gets here. She'll know what to make of you."

Anders thought of the girl they had hanged, and that Ser Aggie had not prevented such an occurrence. He could stay, peacefully, and try to convince the townsfolk of his good intentions, but the idea of being made to dangle in a noose stuck a chord of fear through him. He had listened to Hawke's sorry tale of mages and death, and believed every word, and could not know that Ser Aggie would likely turn a blind eye, in interests of keeping the peace in her hometown.

The apostate shook his head, and started to step backwards.

"Hey now! Stay yourself!" Even as Anders made to run, the villages did not move to grab him, obviously too afraid of the powers a mage might weld against them.

One or two made to give chase, but Anders raised one hand, summoning a fireball, and they quickly retreated. The fire flickered and died as Anders fled the scene, back to Hawke.

* * *

><p>Still on the floor, dribbling into the crux of an arm, Hawke stirred groggy as Anders rushed in, speaking an urgent, insistent noise. Words started to form, and Hawke forced himself to listen.<p>

"Hawke! They know."

Hawke's eyes snapped open. Anders continued to speak, a frantic flurry of words, " The boy, he recognised me... Pointed me out. Others, they know Hawke. I had to run, came right back here, but they'll soon follow. I... I am sorry..."

Hawke felt a chill creep down his spine, and he narrowed his eyes at the mage, who was hovering at the door, unsure if it was safe to approach.

"Blast it Anders! How could you have been such a fool?" Hawke then blinked, sluggish, and rubbed at his head, which was already started to suffer under the effects of the home brewed spirit.

"Just the boy saw you...?"

"No, there were others, six or seven... They were going to get the templar." Anders was miserable, and frightened. He could see Hawke's usual mask of calm fracture, and a slow dread fill his eyes. He gave a soft groan, whether from the alcohol or despair at the situation, it wasn't clear.

"Heal me. I need to think."

"It'll not...work... I cannot cure drunkenness, nor the nip of a hangover, you know that."

"I don't sodding care, heal me, so that I can try to save our skins!"

Anders cast at Hawke, and watched as Hawke's body rejected the alcoholic poison that remained in his gut. Wiping the flecks of vomit from his mouth, Hawke took a deep breath, and got to his feet. He still felt like his skull might cave in at any point, but at least now he could stand without the room spinning.

"Right... Right. The packs, go fetch them out from under the bed, and put on as many tunics and trousers as you can. We'll be travelling through the night and it'll get cold. We'll have to leave, as quick as possible before word gets around."

He walked, unsteadily, to the kitchen, and started to gather food stuffs that they could take. Anders, seeing Hawke put everything behind him in order to cope with the current crisis, followed suit, and dragged the pair of packs out from under the bed. Old weapons and armour, and the last of their possessions from Kirkwall, stored in two large canvas backpacks for such an event. Hawke had been devastated to lose all that he that earned when forced to flee, and had made preparations in case of a repeat. Anders was at once glad of Hawke's prudence, and shamed that he had caused the former champion of Kirkwall to had to run like a lowly criminal or runaway apostate yet again.

He pulled his staff out, and regarded it. They'd cut the decorative gems from the top, and tried to make it look like a simple walking stick, rubbing ash into the runes to hide the magical glow. He laid it out, and started to tie it to the backpack, which would leave his hands free when moving. Hawke, moving to place the food, and of all things, Anders's tealeaves, on the bed frowned.

"You'll need your weapon to hand Anders..." He said, his words a criticism rather than statement. He pulled his own daggers out, oiled and glinting in the dimming light, and fastened them to his belt.

That Hawke seemed ready to fight his way out, against unorganised townfolks who were of hardly any real threat, made Anders painfully aware of the gravity of the situation. He took his staff, and then started to pull a set of tunics over his head.

Hawke was quick under pressure, and it did not take long before he was casting his eye round the small set of rooms, looking for anything of value they might have missed. He gave a small, grave nod to Anders.

"Let's go."

* * *

><p>They headed out into the streets, busy even in the night, and Hawke ushered Anders to walk calmly beside him. They took a series of backroads and alleyways, leading out of town.<p>

Shouts from behind, and Hawke turned, hands on both daggers but not yet drawing them.

"Hold! We have a mage loose. Hold and be seen." the barkeep approached, and Hawke felt his heart sink. He lowered his own hood, and raised one hand in greeting. One remained on the hilt of the dagger, tensing around the wrapped metal.

"'lo barkeep." softly, not to arouse further interest.

"Mars? Mars, you surely can pick your moments to go out for a walk. Its dangerous out. There is a mage..." Then, noting how Anders was keeping to the shadows and not showing his face. He caught glimpse of the staff, and pointed. "Whose your friend?"

"Cousin of mine, pay no mind. He is a bit simple..." The last words were stark, and Anders felt the bite behind the lie.

"Ahh... Get him to lower his hood, and I'll let you get on back home. The streets ain't for wandering tonight, I can tell you."

Anders, looking to Hawke, dutifully lowered his hood, and the barkeep stopped and stared.

"Mars! Blonde, and bearded... That's the mage we're all out seeking!" he was hissing, angry but not yet drawing attention to them.

"Its a mistake, the man is harmless, I give you my word. He's no mage, but he does fall under my care."

The barkeep looked at Anders, and then back at Hawke.

"Marsellion, I want to believe you... But... Old Orain, he says he saw flames shoot from the mage's fingertips..."

Hawke's eyes hardened, and he drew his blade, holding it out so that the barkeeper could see the weapon. He shifted into a fighting stance.

"Let us leave... We'll go quite-like, out of town and you'll not see us again."

The barkeep hesitated, confused at Hawke's sudden unspoken threat, and then turned to Anders. His face scrunched into an angry mask.

"Mage! Release him from your thrall. Marsellion is a good man, and would not bring blade against his neighbour."

Hawke saw the barkeep's mistake first, and could not think how to convince him that he was not being manipulated by Anders. Anders, shocked at being called a blood mage, automatically lifted his hands to cover his eyes, in case Justice broke through and compounded the situation. With his hands, he lifted his staff, and the barkeep leapt back.

"Here! The mage is here, and he's got Marsellion!"

Hawke turned, and started to sprint down the street, away from the barkeep and the sound of gathering feet. The people he'd spend evenings with sharing a beer, and working the fields or hay bales, were running to save him from the mage. With a grimace, he called back to Anders.

"Firestorm, now! Block off the street!"

Anders did as he was bid, and conjuring a rain of fire down from the sky, causing the villagers to scream and fall back. The barkeep, caught in the middle, tried to find cover, but one of the falling fireballs landed by his feet, and he yelled out in pain as the flames caught onto his breeches.

The shouts, screams and general chaos covered the sound of their thundering feet, as Hawke and Anders fled the scene.


	5. Chapter 5

The road from the town was rough, and Anders kept stumbling in the dark on loose rocks and potholes. Hawke was silent, focused. Any attempt Anders made to try and speak, was hushed in favour of trying not to draw attention. They were mostly alone on the road, the night still save for the odd deer or swooping owl, but Anders could not find strength to force the issue, not when it was clear that Hawke was trying to keep his mind on the current plan of action. That, or keep from launching into another tirade on how Anders could have been such a fool.

There was comfort to be found though, in that, even as Hawke trudged with heavy feet, the man had not abandoned the mage to the townsfolk and their templar and their nooses. That even though the rogue was less than happy at their sudden upheaval, he remained by Anders's side. Anders had always been fearful that one day Hawke would finally take heed of his warning and grim predictions of the future they would share, should Hawke continue to follow him. That one day Hawke would finally decide that protecting a mage was not wroth the heartache and headache of a life on the run.

The gallows had been a true test of fire, and Hawke had come through then, but Anders wondered how much more he could ask of the former champion of Kirkwall. Hawke offered no reassurance as they travelled in the dark, by dim light Anders could only see a face barren of any emotion except determination.

Finally, as Anders tripped on yet another ill-placed rock that Hawke had easily navigated past, the mage could find no strength to pick himself up again. Hawke halted, and turned, and then, offered Anders a hand up. Anders gratefully took the glove, and smiled at Hawke. The ghost of a smile touched Hawke's lips, and Anders was instantly put at ease. The road they walked was difficult, and dangerous, but he could count on Hawke. There would be tricky conversations ahead, of that he had no doubt, but they could wait until they had claimed some degree of safety.

Dawn broke, and they both scurried into a ditch when they heard a cart behind them. Hawke chanced a look at the donkey pulled cart, loaded high with straw. In an instant, he burst from the cover, shouting for the rider to hold.

"Harroild! Harroild, it's me."

"Marsellion, what in the Maker's name are you doing out at such an hour?"

"Can you afford me a lift? Please?"

"Certainly... You heading to Lydin as well? Fortunate bit of luck then, running into you." Harroild's voice was soft, friendly. He had not heard about the night's adventures, having taken himself to bed before evening had fully set in due to his early start, taking his straw bales to Lydin to sell.

Hawke went to fetch his pack, and whispered for Anders to climb into the cart. Unfortunately, Harroild's eyes were keen, and he looked at Hawke, suspicious.

"What manner of game you playing? Who is that, creeping into my cart like I can't see 'im?"

They had been walking through the night, and Hawke's patience was stretched to breaking point. He could try to lie, but Anders and his staff were too much to try and cover with stories and fabrications. He looked to Harriold, and did not smile. He dropped his voice to a low, clear cadence.

"Let us ride with you, or my highly dangerous mage friend shall burn your cart to ash with you upon it."

Harroild stuttered a confused question, which Hawke did not pay heed to. He clambered up to sit beside Harroild, after telling Anders to get into the cart with both packs.

"Harroild. It has been the longest of nights. I will not explain myself to you."

Hawke must have held the dagger out, because from the muffled coating of straw, Anders could hear no further objections. The cart, now much heavier to the donkey's dismay, started to trundle forwards.

"Best try to claim some sleep..." Hawke shouted back into the cart, and Anders nodded at the sense of it. The cart would perhaps not be much faster than they could walk, but it would give their wearied bodied a chance to rest, as well as affording a more inconspicuous form of travel.

Sleep though, would not come. Meditation, slowing his breathing, none could dispel the heavy emotions still clogging up his mind from the events of the night. Not to mention that the uneven knocking of the cart, and Hawke's occasional bark for Harroild to not ask such questions, distracted him from achieving any sort of peace. He decided instead, he'd use the time to make sense of the muddle of feelings he felt buzzing and clambering for recognition, that had started to plague him as the night wore on. The task of placing one foot in front of the other had not been enough to keep his thoughts clear and focused like Hawke's, and despite Hawke's gesture of civility in offering him a hand up when he fell, he was confused by the man he so eagerly followed.

Hawke had struck him. He'd not thought to heal his lip, and was loathe to remove the reminder of the incident, lest he dismiss it, or worse, Hawke dismiss it as 'no lasting harm'. The man had been drunk, and forceful on the issue of sex until it was against Anders's will, but more so, the impact had breached a level of trust that had long since been established. Hawke was a violent man, when the need arose, but he had never turned an attack on Anders. Even at the gallows, Sebastian and every templar braying for his blood, Hawke's daggers had not even twitched in his direction. Lately though, the rogue's voice had been sharp as his blades, and his temper barely held in check. It was unlike him to permit himself to get so intoxicated, and Anders wondered at whether this apparent volatile streak was why he rarely drank to excess.

Perhaps then, it was Anders to blame for letting Hawke get quite so cross, and then for denying him when Hawke had tried to reconcile. It had been inappropriate, and in his usual overaffectionate manner, but it was as close to apology as he could expect from Hawke. He should have followed Hawke's request, and 'kissed and made up'. Would have been so terrible to suffer the sex for sake of the man he loved?

He could feel self-disgust at giving in so easily, and dryly thought that Justice spirits should keep their thoughts to themselves if they were not going to be upfront about their opinions. Yet more frustrated rage from the spirit, nipping like a hangover, and Anders made attempts to block the indecipherable emotions.

Something was wrong with the spirit, being so distant, so apart from his own thoughts. The two of them were usually so close it could be hard to tell where one opinion originated, but now, it felt as if something was driving a wedge between the two consciousness.

As the day warmed, and the straw became stifling, Anders also realised that he himself did not feel quite right. His hands were shaking, though not cold, and his mind seems to flitter between lines of thought. It was hard to think, save for guilt that he'd caused Hawke so much upheaval and pain, that might have been avoided if he'd only listened.

Hawke was a born leader, confident and cool under pressure, and could be counted upon to do what he must to see things through. Anders, well, his past experiences had been of flawed notions and unwise choices. From constant recapture when trying to flee the tower, to joining the grey wardens and earning himself a slow death sentence and a justice spirit sharing his skull.

The more he thought on it, the more it seemed unlikely that Hawke had done anything wrong, that it was himself who had caused this entire series of events to unfold. Nausea, and an inability to think on what he could do to remedy the situation, consumed him. Trembling, clutching his staff, Anders's mind wound itself into a tight knot of guilt, as the mage curled tight under the straw.

* * *

><p>It seemed easy enough, to steer a donkey, Hawke thought. He'd been watching Harriold, blunting refusing to answer any of the farmer's questions, avoiding looking him in the eye. Harroild, obviously scared of his passengers, stared straight ahead. He'd cluck occasionally to his donkey, a sturdy beast, that only sometimes needed reminding to keep pace.<p>

Harroild was a simple farmer, but Hawke had enjoyed working for him. He'd paid fair wage, and had sense enough to sent the workers home early when the rains turned too heavy, or the night closed in. His wife often baked loaves of bread, and brought them out to the small collection of farmhands, and Hawke had been impressed that Harroild worked just as hard as the folk he hired, if not more so. He had respect for the man, and some part of him wished that it had been anyone else that had chanced to be taking the same road as him and Anders. Harroild did not deserve the harsh words, and weight of burden that Hawke had laid on him.

As the sun climbed higher into the sky, Harroild started to fidget. First chewing on a piece of stray straw, then scratching at his forearms. Shoulder hunched, to offer some protection if his passenger decided to get violent, the man turned to Hawke.

"Marsellion... We are going to get to Lydin soon. You want I should let you and your... friend... off here?"

Hawke turned, and swallowed painfully. His body ached, and his pounding headache was not helped by the noise and rattle of the cart. He finally fixed his eyes on Harriold, and whispered a single word;

"Sorry."

* * *

><p>The cart jolted, and Anders heard a cry cut short. He scrambled from the hay, as Hawke was trying to get the donkey to stop braying at the smell of blood in the air.<p>

"Hawke?"

The mage would recognise Hawke's handiwork anywhere, a pair of deep and brutal jabs, at just the right places to stop a body breathing. The farmer was fading fast, but by this stage healing magic would only slow the inevitable. At any rate, his hands were shaking so badly, he doubted he could cast. Besides, Hawke knew too well how to put someone down so that they would not get up again. The stark fact of that made Anders shy from the rogue, even as he approached, bloodied dagger still in hand, the donkey now stomping its hooves nervously, but otherwise still.

"Help me move the body off the road into that group of trees. The wildlife will take care of the rest."

"Hawke. Wait. What are you doing?" his voice was quiet, incredulous that Hawke would murder a man so causally, especially one that he'd worked with. The farmer had no weapon, and in the face of Hawke's threat, had seemed entirely compliant. There seemed no reason why he should be bleeding to death at the rogue's feet.

"Saving us. Keeping you safe. He knew me, and saw you. We can't risk him pointing the way to any templar seeking us out." Hawke's voice was cold, and his eyes distant. It worried the mage to see no hint of remorse in those chestnut orbs.

"But... He seemed to know you, he might not have talked to the templar... Might have kept a secret."

"Under templar interrogation, everyone breaks eventually..." Something in Hawke's voice seemed to hint at a pain Hawke was not sharing. Anders wondered if Hawke feared that his past companions might betray their location, and that was why he had been so reluctant to write Varric a letter, or take Isabella up on her offer of free ship's passage as far as they needed. Why he had cut off contact with everyone but himself.

"Plus, we need this cart." Hawke interrupted Anders's thoughts, "It's good cover, and till the donkey wears out, it'll save us heaving heavy packs across the countryside."

"I don't understand... You knew him... How could you just..." Anders trailed off, looking down at the half closed eyes of the body, all the life extinguished from them.

Hawke straightened, after using the hem of Harroild's shirt to clean the blood from his blade.

"I had no choice. Now grab his legs and help me shift him."

* * *

><p>Anders was shaking badly by the time the donkey finally fell to its knees and refused to move further. They'd passed Lydin on the cart, and some other little cluster of houses and huts surrounded by fields and barns. It was daylight, but the road was quiet, and no-one seemed to notice the way the man driving the cart would peer into the back, sometimes whispering into the depths of straw. Hawke had an aim, to hit the coastline and set up in a harbor. The increased risk from more templar would be offset by the ease of quick escape should Anders be discovered. And he already had an idea of how to reduce the likelihood of that occurrence.<p>

Still, it was a moot point until he could get Anders safely somewhere private, and so, unhitching the donkey, Hawke and Anders broke away from the road into the wilder paths of scrub and plain. There were trees, thickening to a dense forest that they had to weave through, careful not to trip on roots or rocks. Soon Hawke was confident they could stop and make camp.

The mage was quiet, probably dazed with withdrawal, but also casting nervous glances towards the former champion. The sharp reality of the murdered Harroild had startled him, and Hawke felt a twinge of resentment that Anders would hold the blame for what had to be done over the rogue's head. What was the blood of one man, compared to the screams and pain of a chantry, followed by an entire city? Or the scores of templars they had cut down to protect the blonde healer? Perhaps the mage would relax once he had consumed some tea.

Once brewed, in silence, Hawke brought the cup over, setting it down by the tree where Anders was leaning, holding his head. Fingers were threaded through the blonde ponytail, and would not be still, no matter how tightly Anders seemed to clench them against his hair.

"Drink. It'll make you feel better." Hawke summoned every last scrap of warmth he could into his voice, trying to coax a smile from his mage.

"I do not feel like it..."

On the run again, with what little he had managed to reclaim lost to the winds, Hawke sighed. It would always be like this, he knew, but that did not make it any easier to accept. Anders had warned him, but that was little comfort when faced with the task of rebuilding, again and again, and never having a name to hold and be proud of. He would miss Marsellion, and the friends he'd made under that guise. The brief masquerade of Marsellion was over, the name as good as dead. No body to bury, no real life to mourn, but all the same, Hawke felt sorrow at yet another piece of happiness he had lost.

He was tired, and still suffering from whatever barrel-brew the barkeep had gifted him with. There was little he could do but rest to cure his ills, but with Anders still in withdrawal, he could not count of the mage to keep an alert watch. Till Anders drank, he'd get no chance at sleep himself, and he could find no patience for Anders's refusal.

"Just drink it." he growled, then, seeing Anders frown and his hand not move towards the cup, offered; "It will stop the shaking."

Anders almost reached for the stewing brew to relieve his trembling hands, and now legs as well. Then he caught himself. He snapped his head up, and regarded Hawke, confused, suspicious.

"Hawke... Tell me again... What is *in* this tea...?"

He had planned never to tell Anders what was actually in the tea he drank so happily, but his patience was at an end, and he sat, heavily. He quietly picked up the cup, and cradled it in his hands.

"Lyrium... And deathroot. and some other narcotics and sedatives, mostly plant based." His voice betrayed no emotion, listing off the ingredients as if recalling a shopping list.

Anders spluttered, and struggled to his feet.

"Lyrium, and deathroot? Are you trying to kill me!"

Truthfully, the concoction was more than a little hazardous for a person's long term health, but that did not seem as pressing an issue for the Grey Warden Anders. When rescuing Nathaniel from the primal thiag, Hawke had taken time to hold a most enlightening conversation with the archer. Nathaniel, who had known Anders from before he'd left the wardens, and had quickly summarised Hawke's involvement with the mage. When Anders had been busy checking over one of the dwarves they'd pulled from the hoards of darkspawn, he'd quietly beckoned Hawke aside.

"You have my thanks for your timely rescue. You and Anders both." they exchanged a meaningful look, and when Nathaniel showed no signs of discomfort at the status of Hawke and Anders's relationship, Hawke gave a small smile of aknowldgement. Nathaniel continued; " Anders is a good man, but sometimes impulsive and rash. I wish you both well, and hope that you can convince him to stay in one place long enough for him to finally settle. Perhaps... You will be a good influence on him."

Nathaniel had glanced to the kneeling mage, healing magics flowing from him as he mended the damage the ogre had caused to a poor dwarf's leg. Something akin to regret filled his eyes, and he turned back to Hawke, solemn.

"That he has stayed in Kirkwall so long, he must be happy, and for that I thank you. So I feel I should tell you, he is a grey warden. He will always be a grey warden, such a thing cannot be undone."

Hawke, awkward in the face of such an odd comment, down in the pits of the darkroads, had nodded his understanding curtly. He was distracted, already planning to get them all out to the surface as quickly as possible. Nathaniel though, had caught his arm.

"It means more than I think he will have told you..."

Hawke listened, as Nathaniel hastily explained the nightmares and that darkspawn would be able to sense Anders. That he would draw them, should he stray too close to the deeproads.

"I will keep him safe." Hawke had said, and Nathaniel, sadness touching his words, or perhaps it was pity, told him it would not be enough. That eventually, the taint would claim his lover, and that there was nothing to be done. Hawke was going to question further, suddenly alarmed that Anders would be stolen from him by something he could not fight against, but the group, newly mended, had started to gather, awaiting orders.

Nathaniel had instructed them to guard the entrance, and then whispered to Hawke before Anders could get within earshot.

"You'll have 25 years together at most, perhaps much less. Treasure the time you have, and him."

Hawke had frozen, as Nathaniel smoothly smiled at Anders, and started organising the marching order. Seeing Anders shoot him a confused and concerned glance, he'd followed suit, smiling brightly, and then leading the way from the thaig. Leading, so Anders would not see the tightness in his jaw when his smile slipped, as he came to terms with the fact that his love was dying. And hadn't thought to tell him this grim truth himself...

It was a secret Anders had continued to keep, whether out of some residue respect for the grey wardens and their rules about such knowledge being shared, or to save Hawke's heart from such sad insight. Long since, Hawke had given up on Anders ever admitting his death sentence. In hindsight, the mage's destruction of the chantry alluded to the fact that he never intended to live past his terrible act of Justice. Typical of the mage not to consider Hawke's feelings and *needs* in amongst his manifestoes and spirit-induced madness.

"Not kill... Save." he said softly, looking up to meet Anders's outraged eyes, "I did it to help you..."

"And exactly how do you figure drugging me, no, *poisoning* me, is going to help in the slightest?" Anders was on his feet, but swaying. His voice was raised in alarm, verging on panic. His eyes however, stayed brown, and his voice carried none of the deep rumble of Justice's timbre.

Hawke took a deep breath, and swirled the cup thoughtfully, watching how Anders's eyes were drawn to the liquid.

"Deathroot, and Feverfew, to keep your nightmares at bay by weakening your concoction to the fade. Eddle's Blossom, to calm you, to prevent Justice to take control if you should get too emotional. And lyrium... I figured on the lyrium affecting Justice more than it would you, since it is from the fade, and that the lyrium would keep the spirit subdued."

"You should not have done it..." Anders whispered, a note of betrayal hardening the edge of his words.

"Is that your opinion, or Justice's?" Hawke asked.

Hawke's answer came as Anders's skin broke into bright blue shimmers of magic, as Justice finally managed to wrest hold over the mage's body. The body which, deprived of sleep and the tea, was suffering. Justice sunk to the forest floor, limbs unable to hold the shivering form upright.

"You have wronged us..." The words were in a strong statement, despite justice not being quite able to stand. Hawke placed the cup down by his side, careful to steady it in a patch of moss so it would not spill. He rose to his feet, and circled round the mage/spirit.

"I have contained you, for sake of your host. Or do you not care that you are leading Anders to ruin? That you will get you both killed persuading your insane righteous notions."

"Justice will be served. We are will accomplish that, no matter the cost..."

Hawke stopped in front of Justice, and bend down on one knee, looking the fade spirit in wild blue eyes, ignoring the snarl that was fixed upon his lover's face.

"You may be willing to risk Anders, and Maker help him, he might even be stupid enough to risk himself... But I am not." Hawke fixed the spirit with a cold set of eyes, unmoved by the obvious rage bubbling behind justice's twisted face.

"Find yourself another host...Take yourself and your poisonous ideals out of his head."

Justice's head shook, as the spirit tried to bring himself to face Hawke. Shaking limbs disobeyed, and with a coarse cry of frustration, growled; "You will not stand in our way."

Hawke smiled then, and as unfamiliar Justice was with human emotion, the spirit could tell there was no humour in the curl of lips.

"I don't have to. ... The lyrium that I'm sure you crave, even now, has reduced you to a shaking heap. It courses through the physical form you are attached to, and the discomfort you feel will only get worse. If you leave, you might be able to overcome the addiction before it takes true hold."

justice did not answer, but continued to glare at Hawke, even as the man settled uncomfortably close, a parody of the intimacy he shared with the host. Hawke's voice was steady and calm;

"Soon, you will feel your heart pound, fit to burst. Pain, the like of which you have not yet experienced, will coarse through your bones. Slowly, your mind will turn on you, and all you will be able to think of is how much you want the lyrium... That want will consume you. You'll become no better than a demon, lusting after the sweet substance and the peace it brings. You will do anything to get your hands on the lyrium, no matter at what cost it comes. If granted control, you will steal, and murder for the stuff, as the addiction takes over. No lofty ideals of justice and righteousness, just pure need and craving."

There was a silence in the forest, as Hawke's words sank in. Justice's fists bunched, and with an inhuman cry screamed at Hawke; "We will destroy you for what you have done! We will have vengeance for this injustice!"

Magic crackled, and Hawke saw Justice try to summon flame. The shaking seemed to interfere with the casting, and as the flickers of fire failed to do more than peter out and die the spirit howled in untempered rage. Finally, seeing that the magic would not obey his frantic shivering fingers, Justice surged forward, catching Hawke off guard. They fell to the ground, and with a scrabble of hands and arms, Hawke felt tight fingers clench round his throat. He'd hoped Justice would be too far gone into withdrawal to launch such an attack, and cursed his luck that the fade spirit seemed to be able to fuel itself on anger. He twisted, body struggling to summon energies long since spent during the course of the day, but the pressure on his windpipe remained.

"Anders..." He wheezed, looking past justice's bright blue fury to seek out his lover, "Anders.. I can't *breathe*"

Justice made a strange noise, and suddenly brown eyes were staring back at Hawke, wide in horror. Anders pulled his hands from Hawke's neck, shaking now with more than withdrawal.

Hawke turned to his side, gasping for air, and then, carefully, looked to where Anders had backed away to. He gave a grim smile.

"Thank you Anders... It would have killed me."

"No Hawke, *I* would have killed you. Me and Justice, we are meshed, entangled... It is not as simple as me and him, not anymore... Even now, I can feel Justice desperately trying to regain control. He.. He wants to hurt you. He wants to use my body to hurt you." Anders's voice was soft, and held a tremor than verged on the promise of tears.

Hawke sat up, rubbing his neck free of the lingering sensation of the air being squeezed from him, and laid a hand on Anders's shoulder.

"Then do not let it.. " Hawke gestured to the cup, its contents cooled in the evening air.

"No Hawke... I cannot do that..."

"You said yourself, if Justice gets control again, it will try to hurt me, more likely try to kill me... I gave it fair chance to leave, but instead of pursuing the course of justice and finding someone else to play the part of a host, it chose to try and kill me. That seems more like Vengeance... "

Anders started, and his entire body tensed. Apparently the fade spirit did not appreciate Hawke's observation.

"Anders, my dear Anders. I thought you loved me, as I love you. I have given up everything for you, will you not do this small thing to stop yourself from hurting me?"

At those words, Hawke saw Anders's eyes focus with resolution. Flickers of blue danced over his pupils, but he preserved to keep control. Fighting with an unseen force inside his own head, Anders reached blindly for the cup, and Hawke supplied it, breathing much easier as he watched Anders swallow the liquid. He could see the difficulty Anders had to face to force himself to take in the doped brew. He nodded, and with a firm arm brought Anders to him in a protective embrace.

"The tea will help, you'll feel much better soon. That damned spirit will not have hold over you any more. You are safe. You are *mine*."


	6. Chapter 6

Anders could hardly feel Justice's continued aggression, now that he knew to measure out the cups of tea when he began to feel the tickle of rage and disapproval grow too strong. With every pot, the little enraged sensations swirling at the back of his mind ebbed further back, fading to mere memory. Now that he knew the cause for Justice's distance, it seemed easier to make sense of the occasional flare of emotion emanating from the spirit. The frustration, and anger could be attributed to the spirit's inability to connect with his host. He could also sense that Justice was fearful of the truth of Hawke's words, that the fade spirit worried he would come to crave the lyrium and little else given time.

And so much anger at being tricked, contained.

It make Anders uncomfortable to taste the resentment turning to hate towards Hawke, though he had tried to calm the spirit, defend Hawke's actions. Whether Justice was equally cut off from Anders's mind and thoughts he could not tell, but the spirit was not to be cajoled into understanding, the rage was too strong. He hoped that there was enough tea left to keep Justice from emerging, and venting such harsh hatred upon Hawke, and himself... It was cruel, he knew more than anyone, to keep the spirit restrained via the lyrium, but the fear of what Justice would do once free pulled tight around his heart.

The mage did feel remorse at what Justice's fate would be if the spirit was kept subdued permanently (which was a growing possibility). Uncomfortable sensations of guilt tugged at his mind like bramble thorns. The tea however, seemed to help with that also.

It might have been better to give proper consideration to the implications of getting a fade spirit addicted to lyrium, but the truth was that his body was bone-weary, and he could not afford to be distracted as he strove to remain vigilant that Justice was truly unable to steal control from him. For the sake of his lover, he could not allow that to happen. When they had found somewhere new to settle, perhaps he could talk with Hawke and see about easing Justice into a rational discussion. Till then, the tea made it easier to to ignore the reality of what he had done to the spirit he knew as Justice. A spirit he had once called friend.

He also knew he should be concerned that Hawke had essentially drugged him for the last two months, but now he knew, he could see a sort of sense to the rogue's actions. He had no fear that he would wake in the night, screaming about darkspawn and their continued taint upon the land. The ache in his muscles from walking countless hours seemed duller, more manageable, and even his usual anxieties that Hawke would one day leave him flared less often. It was hard to protest against the brew, when it put his mind at such ease.

* * *

><p>Hawke was sick of walking, of struggling to haul a heavy pack past trees unthoughtfully spaced too close together. After three nights where the slightest noise would have both him and Anders alert and ready with dagger and staff, only to find a terrified hare or pheasant staring back at them, he was not exactly rested. During the day, trudging onwards, they spoke little, both understanding that when tempers and bodies were so tired even light conversation would drain their energies further, or erupt into blazing arguements that neither would be able to adequately contain.<p>

He was grateful for the silence, however. Since the night where Justice had tried to choke the life from him, Anders had a look of steadily growing discontentment. He could practically see the words hovering on the mage's lips, and did not know how he would best answer accusations of drugging, or lashing out while drunk, or even murdering defenceless farmers. He was guilty of all these things, even though he did not feel particularly guilt-ridden. Everything he had done, was because he loved the mage. Such fierce feelings would drive any man to drastic measures, to keep them together when all of Thedas seemed intent on tearing them apart.

That Anders had willingly started to drink the tea again seemed like grudging admittance that although the mage might not approve of his methods, the results were worth

it. Hawke was glad he'd been able to make Anders see sense, even if he had used some outright emotional manipulation to get Anders to swallow the concoction down. They'd had to ration it, and the foodstuffs, but even then supplies were getting low. Neither Anders or Hawke were fast enough to trap an animal to roast, and while Anders had spotted and collected some elfroot, any other foraging seemed beyond him.

In light of their meagre meal, Hawke decided to call a stop early. The land was strange to him, and the forests disorientating, but Hawke was hopeful that tomorrow they would finally find the coastline. He held onto that hope, unsure of what he would do should they fail to find a source of food, or, perhaps more importantly, lyrium soon. He set down his pack by a tree, and began to clear a space for a small fire to ease the chill from fingers and toes. Anders, familiar with the routine, started to set out the pot of water for his tea.

"There is not much left." he commented quietly, placing a pinch of the leaves into the clay pot. Even though they were miles from the main road, both men spoke is soft whispers, as some small attempt to keep the peace.

"I know."

It was difficult, to keep their waterskins full enough to take into account the water needed for brewing. When passing streams, both men would stoop and drink their fill, knowing that they would not be able to carry much liquid to quench their thirst. Anders had suggested that he chew on the leaves to conserve their watersupply, but Hawke quickly dissuaded him from that notion, saying that the boiling water helped reduce the sheer toxicity of the additional ingredients he'd added to the tealeaves.

Anders had paled at the reminder that he was essentially drinking dilute poison, but said no more on the subject. Hawke wondered that Anders was not just a little addicted himself to the mixture. It would not have surprised him.

The fire set, with Anders's magical assistance, and both settled close by to benefit from the flame's warmth. Anders filled the thick clay pot, and placed it by the side of the embers to heat.

Hawke turned, watching as Anders carefully nudged the pot, to stop one side getting too hot and risk the container shattering.

"Do you still hear it?"

Anders looked up from his task, and shook his head. "Justice? No, he is quiet... For now."

Hawke took a deep breath, and shuffled a little closer to the mage.

"Do you miss it... Him..?" Hawke's adoption of Anders preferred pronoun for Justice made the mage jerk his head up, surprised and caught off guard by the question.

"Sometimes... "

Hawke said nothing, waiting for Anders to continue. Unsure, Anders stared into the fire.

"We might not always agree, but it feels as if he is the only one who truly understands the plight of the magi. The only one willing to stand up and fight for a better future. Its like having a kindred mind, and when we worked together, I could feel his power flowing through me. It felt... good, it felt *right*."

Pausing to use the end of his staff to pull the pot from the fire, and then bunching his hand inside his cloak to protect his hands pour the brew into a cup, Anders glanced up to check on Hawke's reaction.

There was no disapproval, nor contempt on his face. Such feelings were carefully masked as the rogue gave a slow nod to show his understanding. He rested a hand on Anders's shoulder, as the mage stared at the brew. The mage seemed wistful for the spirit's presence, and Hawke was suddenly aware of how much he was relying on Anders to continue to keep the spirit subdued. Mind quickly clicking into action, he swallowed, and, with measured care, let a small trace of doubt favour his voice.

"He changed though, you said yourself..."

Anders glanced up, and gave a small sigh.

"Yes... He is not the friend I once knew. Sometimes its fine, exactly as I remember. Those days are good... But other times he is so domineering, so angry. Its like I'm with a stranger. A dangerous stranger I'm almost scared of. There are times I can hardly recognise him at all."

Hawke leant closer, and placed a kiss on Anders's cheek, reassuring the mage of his presence. Anders relaxed visibly, and rested his head against Hawke's chest.

"It'll be fine, you'll see." he said, voice confident and clear. Anders, happily curling into Hawke's protective form, smiled as he brought the cup to his lips.

* * *

><p>To Hawke's visible relief, they found the coastline in the early hours of the next morning. He'd slept better, despite being woken twice through the night by nocturnal beasts hooting and rustling close to their camp, and the heavy weight of his pack did not seem such a burden.<p>

They ate at a small fishing village, the hot meal filling their stomachs pleasantly. Hawke was aware that between rent and food and lyrium, he had not saved as much coin as he would have liked, but when he heard that the harbour was only a couple of hours away that pleased him, and he sought to at least reward the tavern owner for such jubilant news by tipping an extra copper piece.

Energy renewed, they made good progress to the harbour, seeing the boats upon the water before they laid eyes on the town. It was called Glutter's Cove, or something similar, the local dialect brisk and difficult to follow. The name did not matter, not when within a couple of hours of enquiries, they found a small but cheap property to rent, available to move into immediately.

Packs were dropped to the floor with an almost ceremonious clatter, and Hawke allowed the pent up tension of the last few days ebb from his body as he surveyed the room. Anders walked up beside him, letting his arm rest lightly by his side.

"Safe at last..." He sighed, and smiled to his lover.

Hawke would have returned the sentiment, grinned at finally meeting the end of their journey, but he was making a conscious effort not to relax his guard. This was a house they were renting, not their home. Homes hurt too much to lose, and during the long hours spent trailing the hidden paths of the forests and grasslands, he had decided that he would not allow himself to expose what was left of his heart to such pain. This was not safe, this was temporary. Even his daggers, that he'd spent much too much time polishing and reminiscing for what had been, were merely items. Useful to have, but should they need to escape in a hurry, he would have no qualms about leaving the blades behind. All he needed was himself, and Anders.

He looked to the mage, hair plastered down against his skull, fingernails ridged in dark grime. Even after days of travel, the blonde was devastatingly handsome, but he knew that they both would benefit from a wash. He bit down on his coiling arousal, and a particularly cutting remark of the complete lack of safety they could except from a strange town, and instead went to fetch a water basin.

Anders balanced by one of the walls, and kicked off his hardened leather boots, toes flexing gratefully as Hawke pulled a sweat-soaked tunic from himself, dumping it in a pile to be laundered later.

Water, heated-by-magic water, felt like the maker's blessing itself, as he poured it over grubby skin. Even as he let himself appreciate the sensation, he caught sight of Anders, eyes drifting across the body slowly becoming cleansed. With a sly grin, he flexed his shoulders, and took a certain amount of devilish pleasure in the way Anders appeared to forget how to breathe.

He dipped the rag, and dragged it deep across his chest. He was more careful when tackling his neck, wary of the faint bruises Justice had left. He let the cloth drop into the water, and then with a deft set of fingers quickly undoing the fastenings, let his trousers likewise fall to the floor. He kicked them away from the basin, so they would not get wet, then bent gracefully to retrieve his washcloth, continuing to run it over every muscle, water soaking the sweat from his skin. His audience was suitably enraptured by the sight of him, bare except from his smalls, and pleasantly damp and clean. Satisfied that the worse of the travel was purged from him, he tipped his head to the side and beckoned Anders over.

When Anders tried to embrace his sodden lover he was met with a hand, firm against his still covered chest. Hawke gave a grin, and tipped his chin out.

"You're still filthy... Get out of those grubby garments and stand in the basin."

Anders looked like he might protest, but Hawke was already easing a hand under his tunic and lifting it upwards. The heavy smell of sweat and musk was not entirely unpleasant, but it could be definitely improved upon. He knew Anders found his lopsided grin difficult to resist, and his eyes flashed with the promise of mischief should the mage complied. Shaking off his inhibitions, Anders shucked his breeches from him, and stepped into the water, the heat creeping up his legs and easing aching feet.

"There now, isn't that better?" Hawke all but purred, pushing his own smalls down, noting with pride the state of Anders's erection.

Anders, trying not to move his hands to cover himself, was inclined to agree, reluctantly.

Hawke knelt then, and began to use the rag to wash Anders's right thigh. The mage's underclothes were quickly soaked as the clothe was dipped and repeatedly ran over the dips and grooves of worn muscles. Water rained from his skin, the chill of air on wet skin making Anders uncomfortable, feeling more than naked, exposed. He squirmed under the attenions, torn between his own arousal still stiff from Hawke's display, and the growing sense of his dignity being striped from him, washed away like so much mud.

He was about to step from the basin, and reclaim the ability to at least take care of his own hygiene, when he saw the look in Hawke's eyes. Intense, and wholly focused on the task, the rogue was ensuring that the mage was cleansed as much as the dirtied water and now greying washcloth would allow. On seeing his legs tense as if to move, Hawke paused in his task, the rag held in his hand dripping, and glanced up at Anders. There was adoration, open and honest, and Anders felt his reservations about the strange situation slip away. He gave a small smile, and Hawke continued, unhurried.

Hawke rose on his knees to reach Anders's torso, his mouth so close Anders's could feel every breath leech heat from the damp skin. He could not help but twist so that he could bare witness to Hawke's face as he attended him. The look was familiar, the same concentration Hawke would wear when oiling his daggers. Anders felt a spark of joy lance through his whole body, that he could be the subject of such tender ministration. Unwilling to risk breaking Hawke's engrossment, he desperately tried not to react as Hawke moved to run the clothes up the curve of his backside, the rough fabric pressing firmly along the crease of his buttocks.

He almost succeeded.

Hawke blinked slowly as Anders settled down again, grinning shyly that he had arched quite so suddenly. A tight line of disapproval met him, and he muttered a soft apology, and doubled his efforts to allow Hawke his immersion in the task. Hawke seemed intent on not making it easy, slowly rubbing against every piece of flesh before him, and then pulling the drenched smallclothes down when Anders could felt his entire body tingle, refreshed. Knuckles brushed against his sac as Hawke tackled the deep crevice of his thighs, and only through sheer determination, and biting down hard on the inside of his cheek, could Anders stop himself from both calling out and tipping his body into that touch.

He did not hear Hawke rise to his feet, but could feel the warmth of the rogue's body so close to his shift upwards. The clothe, cooler now the water had started to lose its heat, swiped over shoulders and neck, and a hand curled from behind to cup under his chin.

Hawke was smiling, though he did not make eye contact with Anders. Instead his eyes tracked the path of the clothe, as he stroked it over cheek, then down the line of his throat. Anders shuffled, starting to feel increasingly cold, and brought his arms close in, demonstrating his discomfort. He grinned that even in the face of such a intimate moment as being washed by a lover, physical reality intervened. Hawke, drew the washcloth over his lips, as if trying to wipe away his expression, before suddenly seeing the faint tremble that had started to take hold of Anders's hands. He blinked, then gently pulled Anders forward out of the water into an embrace, pressing his own heated torso against the mage, hands and arms claiming as much skin as possible.

Anders felt hips press into his, Hawke's own erection digging deep into the flesh of his side. He knew if he was to break away, he would see Hawke's eyebrows raised in a suggestive arch, and so dipped his head so he would not have to see the disappointment that would surely follow his next words.

"Let me dry first, get warm..."

"Anderrrrrrs..." It was a plea to continue, but spoken in a tone that held no room for refusal. Anders tried to move, his feet starting to cramp from the cold wet floor, his skin unpleasantly cold and damp. Hawke seemed not to suffer the cold, and his own naked flesh was heated, enticing Anders to give up on finding a towel and just let Hawke warm him with the heat of the rogue's body. He then realised that there was no towel to be had, that their few possessions were limited, and did not include such things.

Rather than catch chill, he decided that he and Hawke's goals were not so dissimilar, both hardnesses a testament that there were other ways to stave off the cold. He lent into Hawke, wrapping his own arms around the muscular form, fingers splayed and clutching. He felt Hawke's chuckle, deep in his chest, and rubbed his cheek against the bare expanse of skin. A hand curled round the back of his head, under the ponytail, and gently placed Anders's ear right against Hawke's heart. He could hear the heartbeat, pace steadily growing rapid, as Hawke ground his hips solidly against Anders, causing the mage to sway under the stronger man's will.

Hawke was hardly being subtle, he was practically growling as Anders had to pull away in order to regain his balance, wet feet not providing as secure a base for Hawke's insistent pelvic thrusts as was needed to keep the rogue from toppling the pair of them over into the wash basin.

"The bed then, before you have us both on the floor.." He said, and made a move towards the sagging and stained straw mattress. Hawke held him back, scowling.

"No. That thing probably has lice by the look of it."

Anders could agree that he'd rather lay on the floor than the mattress, but the wash basin had not managed to contain all the drips, and the floor was sodden, the wooden planks dark with tracked mud and ingrained dirt.

"I'll sort the little blighters. A quick lightening hit should kill them off..."

"No." Hawke's reply was instant, sharp. "You'll cause too much light and the curtains are threadbare. It might get seen. We'll smoke them... later. For now... Here, against the table."

He might have protested the discomfort, and inherent risk of trust both their weights to such a simple looking table, but Hawke's eyes were near black with lust, and Anders found himself reassured that after all he had put Hawke through, the man could look upon him with such unrestrained desire. He let gentle hands guide him to the rough surface, and sat on the wood. Encouraging Anders to lift both knees around his hips, Hawke leant forwards, hot breath ghosting over the mage's face before lips firmly started to touch and tease. Hawke's tongue flicked at the edge of his mouth, and he granted it entry, opening his mouth wider so allow the thick wet heat delve deep. Too soon, Hawke broke away, wiping his moth with two fingers, then licking at the digits, wetting them with his salvia. Anders watched, and could not stop the tension creep up his spine.

"There is no oil...?" he hated the tone his question has adopted, almost a whine more than a coherent dialogue between adults.

"No... And I'm much too far gone to head out to the market to buy some." A joking reply, and went Anders did not smile in kind, he gave an apologetic shrug, gesturing to his spit slicked fingers, "This will have to do for today."

"Hawke... I'm not sure."

"Anders," The tone was now plaintive, and Anders saw Hawke's head dip to his, silently begging for the permission to continue. He could no more deny that look of *need* than he could cut the magic out from his body. He took Hawke's fingers into his mouth, and slowly drew them out, letting his own tongue add to the salvia. Hawke gave Anders's shoulder a tight squeeze of thanks, and then dipped his fingers towards Anders's entrance, smearing and spreading the salvia as best he could.

It was not the first time a lack of oil had caught them off guard in the heat of the moment, but Anders could well remember the sting, the need for healing afterwards. Even when Hawke was not half lost to lust, it was uncomfortable. He braced himself, even as Hawke's finger started to push in and out, the friction already causing a heat he had not wanted to build.

When Hawke started to line up the tip of himself with Anders, preparation forgone to feed the urgent colour of his straining member, Anders yelped. Hawke bent his head, resting it against Anders's heaving chest.

"Please... Bear with it... Please, I need this... You. Please..."

The words were like fire to his nerves, both burning and bright, inflaming his own longing and bringing to light that Hawke would not cease till the deed was completed. He held his tongue, unable to tell Hawke to stop when the man was obviously so in need of this. He had not realised how hard it must have been, on the road and unable to think of anything but escape. The least he could do was grant the man he owed his life to several times over his release. Air whooshed from his lungs as Hawke continued to urge his cock deeper, not stopping to allow Anders time to adapt to the sense of being spilt apart, his tight muscles hot and pained at the intrusion. As hips finally met, Hawke's hardness firmly planted, the rogue looked to the squirming mage.

A hand, fingers soft and tender, tracing down the curve of his cheek, and Hawke's wide, deep eyes gazing at him.

Suddenly, he felt the strength he needed to bare it out, found reason to hold back the wince that begged to show itself on his face. For Hawke.

Resolute, he rolled his hips. Hawke grunted in response, the effort of not pounding the mage bloody telling in the thick tight cords of muscles around his neck and jaw. Anders reached, brushing hair from sweat beaded forehead, and willed himself to clench around the intrusion, the heat almost too much to bare. The rogue's composure faltered, and he pushed hard against the table, making it creak alarmingly. Anders arched, and let Hawke catch him, strong hands under the small of his back, holding him steady as Hawke began to draw out.

"Slow..." Anders whispered, the pain lacing through. Hawke, breathing heavy panting breaths, spat on his hand, rubbing it between the join of their bodies. He worked feverishly, as if he had not heard Anders. His brow was knotted, his restraint clearly fraying.

He thrust, and only his grip on Anders's stopped the mage from managing to wriggle from the sharp sting of his insides being stretched too fast, too much. What little salvia had been used was not enough to ease the burning friction of skin rubbing raw against skin, and Anders keened out, trying to bit his lip against the pain, but unable to stop his body jerking and twitching to get away.

"Slow!" he gasped. Hawke made an incoherent noise, something between a pant and a battlecry, and plunged in again, making Anders's vision flash white. He could hear Hawke, murmuring a string of syllables, punctuated by grunts and groans as he selfishly forced his way deep inside the mage, slower, but no less painful.

Anders held on with his knees, to stop himself kicking out at the man, so lost in lust he did not seem to see the hurt he was causing. His crys became noiseless as Hawke slapped flesh against flesh, fingers digging into the bone, all reason and control fled from the former champion's eyes.

He felt the orgasm take Hawke, hips juddering to a stop, face falling lax. The seed filling him, slick and hot, made it easier for Hawke to pull out, but the salt of it stung the places where skin had stretched to breaking. Anders let his knees release their hold on Hawke, trying to catch breath that would not sate his lungs. He could feel his eyes water, blinked rapidly to clear the tears before Hawke could see. Hawke looked at him, eyes dipping down to his own untouched arousal, flagging slightly as he relaxed that the ordeal was over. Almost as an afterthought, Hawke closed his hand over Anders's erection, bringing the blood flooding back. Jerking up and down in a unskilled, yet functional, fashion, Anders had to cling to Hawke to stop him falling backwards. Sensation, edging over and over on much too much, overwhelmed him, and he could not even speak the words to get Hawke to slow or stop. Release spurted quickly, and Hawke sighed happily at the achievement, touching against the slippery liquid with a finger, stroking against Anders's chest as the mage drew deep, almost painful breaths.

"There now... Not so bad was it?"

Anders did not have the heart to correct the rogue, eyes now soft with satisfaction. There was sincere concern in his voice, awaiting an answer, but everything in Hawke's posture said he was spent, emotionally as well as physically. Anders doubted the man could properly deal with the idea of the damage he had caused in his haste and savage desire.

He forced a grin, "Not bad at all... " Hawke barked a short laugh, and dragged a cloak over to the wall, where it seemed they would rest until the bed was smoked free of parasites. He leant heavily, every breath carried a soft noise of contentment. He looked up at Anders, still on the table, and held an arm out from him to join him.

Anders carefully lowered himself to the floor, so that Hawke would not see the blood stained seed drip from him. He'd heal himself once Hawke had drifted off, as the rogue always did after a vigorous bout of love-making. Hawke's eyes closed, as he rested arm and head on Anders, drawing the mage close.

Later, once magic had eased the aching at the base of his spine, and the twinge of torn flesh had dulled to a mere tenderness, Anders joined Hawke in sleep.


	7. Chapter 7

The journey had taken its toll on Hawke, whether the rogue would admit it or not. He slept soundly, as Anders carefully disengaged from his possessive arms. Smiling at the sleeping figure, curled into a cloak, he drew the thin piece of fabric that served as a door between the bedroom and the main room. All their clothes needed laundered, but to save wandering around in nothing but his skin, Anders pulled on the least pungent tunic and trousers he could find. A fire would be good, to warm them both and speed the drying of their garments once he would start the process of washing the grime and mud and sweat from them. There was a small pile of thin twigs, hardly enough for half a day, but it would do till they could find someone to sell them proper firewood. He could try to reuse the water they'd bathed with, but noise of running water would likely wake Hawke, given the sound would easily carried from room to room. There was an outhouse, out in the common ground, and that was all the space that the rent covered, but a little way back along the road, they had passed a water pump. He'd not dare drink from it, but it would be wet, and at least enough to get some of the mud from their clothes.

Anders was used to squaller. He'd survived on much less when on the run from the templars, then, later, trying to keep his clinic in Darktown running on what little his patients could afford him. Long evenings boiling bandages to reuse them, and begging for elfroot enough to make some simple potions to tide the sick and dying over until he could summon the mana to tend to them, that had been his life for so long, but Hawke, Hawke was used to much finer things. The champion had not wanted for anything, his title and wealth granting him anything that he desired, be it fine wines or magical trinkets to ward off the more aggressive of his enemies. That he now had to deal with poverty, and bedbugs, prayed heavily on Anders's conscience.

But at least Anders could get out, wash the clothes and be back before Hawke knew it, and it would be one less chore for the rogue to concern himself with. Besides, Anders thought that if he could manage a quick outing and back without incident, it might ease Hawke's worries that the world outside the doorframe was full of mage-hating villagers and templars, all set to kill the pair of them if they so much as caught glimpse of the mage.

He paused, out of habit, and then realised that Justice would not or could not give his opinion. For too long he had sought out justice's guidance when conflicted or doubtful, trusting the spirit's judgement over his own. It did not help that what little glimmers of his passenger he could make out were focused only on anger now, and ever-faint, like wisps of incense smoke. He missed the strength justice had given him, the conviction to do what needed to be done. Now, there was just Anders, confused, a little frightened of what the future might hold.

Lost.

He straightened, determined not to be such a burden upon Hawke, and at least see to it that the former champion had some clean clothes to wake to. Gathering the bundle in his arms, he quietly let himself out the front door.

* * *

><p>He'd wrung out the clothes, now thoroughly washed in the questionably clean water, and brought them back, huffing at the effort of the damp weight. There had been a old lady, who had waited her turn at the pump, exchanging pleasantness, and that was the extent of the excitement of doing the laundry. He was energised by his achievement, and set about hanging clothes and cloaks around the fire pit, not minding the drips drumming merrily on his back as he stooped to set the wood alight.<p>

He found his teapot, and used the last of the waterskin water to fill it, adding some tealeaves. There was a pitiful amount left, perhaps enough for a couple more days, but for now he felt he deserved a little reward for his morning's efforts. The smell soon filled the small space, and Anders sat back, cup in hand, enjoying the peace and having four solid walls again.

Hawke stirred occasionally, but did not rise till late that afternoon. Anders had managed to coax the fire into drying most of the clothes, though his cloak, made of thicker wool, would need at least till the next day. When he did get to his feet, and come though, Anders greeting him with a bright smile. Hawke did not return it.

"You've been cleaning the clothes... You've went out?"

"Only to the waterpump and back, and I'm happy to report no flocks of templars swooped down upon me."

"Damnit Anders!" Hawke's hiss was a surprise, the sudden anger seeming to flare from nowhere. The mage rose from the chair, and stood to face Hawke.

"Hawke, nothing happened..."

Even though naked and unarmed, Hawke cut an intimidating figure as he glared at the mage. "What if something had? We've only just got here, or are you so fond of trekking through forests that you'd see us back on the road, back on the run so soon?"

"Of course not! But you cannot seriously expect me to remain cooped up forever."

"You promised..." Hawke's voice was all accusation, and Anders faltered for a reply. He *had* made a promise, not to leave the homestead, but he'd made it for Hawke's sake, not his own safety. Hawke had been so scared for him, it seemed the best way to alleviate his fears, but now he'd broken that fragile trust. He shook his head, loose blonde strands falling free of his untidy ponytail.

"I did... But Hawke, I'm not some sick kitten, needing to be protected and coddled at every moment. I can look after myself you know..."

Hawke seemed to simmer down to a quiet begrudging scowl, and moved to stand beside Anders, placing a hand on his shoulder. Sadness, and worry marred his face, devoid of the grin that had been almost a feature of the champion of Kirkwall.

"I just cannot bare the thought of losing you... I would fall apart without you Anders, do not ask me to sit back and let you put yourself at risk."

"Hawke..." Anders was sympathetic to all Hawke had already lost, all that the champion had given up to be with him. He gave a soft smile, glad to hear that through all their bickering and arguments, Hawke still cared for him.

"I understand. You've been through so much, it must be hard to keep going with all you have had to leave behind..."

Hawke's face changed, tightened. He took his hand from Anders's shoulder, and brought it over himself, holding himself. Head down, studying the floor, he said softly; "you have no idea Anders... No idea at all."

"Then tell me..."

"No."

Justice, had he been able, would have at that point recommended that they respect Hawke's wishes and not to pry. Anders however, had no such guidance, and desperately wanted to help Hawke through what ailed him, the healer in him seeking to mend whatever damage existed within the man's mind.

"Please, let us talk about it, get it out in the open. Perhaps I can help?"

"Help!" Hawke barked, eyes still firmly fixed upon the floor, "I think not..."

The idea that he could not even offer consolation stung, and Anders grabbed hawk as he turned, hand closing around the thick muscle of his forearm. "Hawke, do not keep whatever is bothering you pent up inside. It'll fester, and turn to poison..."

Hawke looked down at where Anders had locked onto his forearm, and closed his free hand around Anders's exposed wrist, squeezing until the mage was forced to let go. He held the wrist, even as Anders winced and tried to pull away, the grip painful against the bones of his hand.

"Fine." his eyes, now narrowed on Anders, were dark, "You think you understand what I've been through? You cannot possible begin to understand all I have given up for you. My wealth, my family home, my respect and my title, all gone because I chose you. Your little mage war cost me *everything*... "

"The plight of the magi could not go on... Surely you understand, your sister-" Anders voice was small, the words rehearsed but not sounding at all convincing as he struggled in Hawke's grip.

"Bethany is a victim of your blind vendetta! She was safe in the circle, perhaps not free, but safe at least. But then you had to go and stir things up, and start a sodding revolution." Hawke took a breath, and set his jaw, "the last I saw of my sister, one of the mages you claim you were fighting for, she was unconscious, the templars dragging her away... To do whatever it is they do to accomplices of exploding a chantry..."

Anders's mouth fell open, and he searched Hawke's eyes for signs of untruth, but saw nothing save for cold anger.

"...I... I didn't know..." His voice was barely a whisper. Hawke flung the captured wrist down, releasing it sharply, and turned to face the wall, breathing heavily through gritted teeth.

"Well now you do."

Hawke rolled his shoulders, and Anders could see the rage leave him, as his breathes became slow and controlled. He approached, carefully touching against Hawke's arm, his fingertips light and soft as his voice.

"Why did you not tell me before...?"

"I did not want to hurt you... " Hawke turned, and cupped Anders's face in his hand, thumb smoothing over the blonde stubble of the mage's chin. Anders let his eyes close, and rested his head into Hawke's hold, trying desperately to conjure some words that would properly console the man for the loss of his sister. He settled for the silence, and absorbing the tenderness that Hawke displayed as he ran the pad of his thumb over the ridge of his jaw, over and over.

He had deliberately not been thinking what might have happened to the companions he'd spent so many years with in Kirkwall. It was too much like heartbreak to think back on the countless card games at the hanged man, or even the bickering matches about mages and their right to exist. That Bethany had not made it out of the burning city had not crossed his mind.

Small wonder then, that Hawke was quite so fearful of templars. It made a sudden sense, and Anders cursed himself for not seeing it sooner.

He moved closer to the slow rise and fall of Hawke's chest, placing his own hand over the rogue's, leaning into the warm palm and kissing against the fingers there. Anger had long since lost its hold on the former champion, and he merely looked at the mage with a strange mix of affection and sadness. Anders swallowed, and pressed his lips against the fingers of the palm, almost reverently, locking eyes with the rogue.

"If there is anything I can do...?"

the way Hawke's eyes lit up, as if he'd been waiting weeks for Anders to utter such a thing, took him by surprise. That Hawke suddenly started to grin filled him with unease, and he realised that Hawke's thumb had moved to catch under his chin, tipping his head upwards.

"There is something... "

Hawke moved quickly, turning to rummage through his pack and pulling out a long piece of shipping rope. Anders, now decidedly nervous at Hawke's rapid change of mood, eyed the coiled length. He glanced to where Hawke was picking up the cloak they had slept on, and spreading it out over the bed.

"What... Hawke, what are you suggesting...?"

"I have to go out, to get food, find work. I need to know you'll be safe. That you'll not put yourself at risk... I need to trust that you'll be here when I get back."

"You can trust me..." Anders did not like the way Hawke was holding the rope, pulled tight between his hands, like a farmer about to corral an animal.

"Can I? Were you not just this morning outside, when you had promised me you would not?"

Anders did not have an answer to that, but at the same time was aware he was instinctively moving from Hawke. Too many years on the run had honed his survival instincts, and Hawke's predatory gleam was far too similar to that of a templar finally catching up to a runaway circle mage.

His heel bumped against the wall, and, knowing that he was backed into a corner, he lifted a hand, magic flaring at his fingertips.

He had presence of mind enough to use something non-aggressive, a simple healing spell, curling to nothingness as he failed to give it direction. He hoped the glow of the power might at least remind Hawke that he was no helpless un-harrowed mageling, unable to do much more than cower in defence of a templar hunter.

Hawke, who could move like a striking snake when he needed to, slammed against his wrist. Anders cried out in shock, then, pain, as strong fingers clenched. Grinding bone against bone, bruising deep into the flesh of the base of his hand. His finger twitched, and he tried to twist from the grip, to no avail. Anders frantically looked to Hawke, whose eyes had narrowed, pupils small and still as he coldly regarded the mage in his grasp.

"You *dare* raise hand against me, after all that I have done?"

Anders didn't answer, couldn't, not when Hawke was speaking in a tone that promised violence, and his hand spasmed as nerves were crushed together.

Hawke let go, and Anders backed up against the wall, away from him. He clutched his hand to his chest, and struggled to steady his breathing. More than the pain, racing though his arm at the slightest movement, was the surprise that Hawke would react so aggressively against him.

"I'msorry!" it was too fast, too much like a reactionary plea that it sounded insincere, even to Anders's own ears.

Hawke, stood solid and strong and still, apparently through with stalking Anders across the small room looked at him. He took the rope into both hands again, stretching it just in front of him, the tension humming along the length. Anders forced himself to breath, to *think*. When he thought he might be able to speak in a normal cadence, not a flustered scared rush, he took a small step forwards from the wall.

"I am sorry Hawke, I would not hurt you. Not with magic, not with anything..."

"You do not understand. I let you close to me, trusted you, *chose* you. But there are people out there who want you dead. Worse than that, want to punish you for what you have done. You know as well as anyone what templar do to escaped magi... What do you suspect they will do to a mage involved in destroying Kirkwall?" Anders noted that Hawke could equally be referring to himself, or Bethany. "I cannot bear to think of that happening to you...It would hurt me to know I could have prevented it, if I'd only kept you safe... So please, let me keep you safe"

Hawke held up the rope, tone and posture changed to one that was almost pleading.

Anders felt torn, between flashes of memories of cruel templar and what they could subject Bethany to, and the unnerving feeling that followed hearing Hawke speak in such a manner. He was not used to Hawke showing weakness, or fear, and the distress in his voice reminded him of the night of his mother's death, when the great champion of Kirkwall had sat upon the bed, and wept for his loss. He'd blamed himself then, and it had taken Anders, Varric and Aveline weeks before Hawke could be convinced to put down the bottle and set aside the guilt that was consuming him.

If anything were to happen to him, be it templar or otherwise, Hawke would be alone in a strange town, with no allies to pull him from despair.

He could work on this, help Hawke get over the crippling fear that Anders would always be such a risk and a liability. It would take time, but eventually, he hoped Hawke might be able to see that keeping Anders locked up like a bird in a cage was no permanent solution. Now however, the fear had such a tight grip on the rogue, making his mood swing wildly, driving his increasingly aggressive and desperate actions.

The best way to tackle it, Anders knew, swallowing hard at the thought, would be to agree and then, once Hawke had calmed start to address the issue before it became any more serious.

He took another step forward, offering both hands, even though the skin was already darkening around one of his wrists.

"For you, I will do this..."

Hawke closed in fast, turning Anders and backing him towards the bed. He smiled as he tied the rope around each wrist, then looped it under the legs of the bed so both hands were spread out, with no slack.

Anders could feel the cloak under him, uncomfortably bunched as he rested his weight against it, and already his wrist hurt at the coarse rope rubbing against bruising flesh. Hawke however, seemed pleased at the mage bound to the bed, and he moved around to stand by Anders's head with visibility less tension.

"You look good..." He mused, stroking a hand against Anders's cheek, unaffected by Anders's clear unease.

"Makes me almost sorry I have to leave, with you laid out so pretty for me... But we need food, so it cannot be helped. I'll hurry back though."

Hawke dressed, continually casting his eyes back to the figure on the bed. Anders shuffled himself, trying to get comfortable, not knowing how long he'd be restrained. Rope bit into his wrist, and he twisted his head to look. It stung, and even without his hands, he knew he could channel magic through to help it heal. He'd barely started the chant, when he saw Hawke suddenly appear beside him, looming menacingly.

The fist came round, and he could not even try to move out of the way. It hit against his cheekbone, vision flaring too bright as his eye recovered from the blow.

"You brainless fool. If you ever even think about doing magic again without my expression permission, I swear I shall walk out that door right now and not look back."

More than the slow crescendo of pain flooding into his face to gather at the point of impact, was the sheer terror that Hawke might leave him. That Hawke would even speak such words, nevermind that the unrelenting way he stared gave Anders no doubt that he would indeed carry out his threat.

"I.. No, don't leave me. It won't happen again."

"I hope you are right, for once..."

Hawke brushed a finger over the curve of his eye socket, pressing against where it was becoming tender. Anders winced, and pulled at his bindings, finding them to hold him securely. He suddenly realise how venerable he was, laid out at Hawke's mercy, the man far more damaged than he had ever had guessed.

Only when Hawke left the house, did Anders finally find himself able to draw a full breath that wasn't choked with fear, and guilt at what he'd caused his love to become.


	8. Chapter 8

**Welcome to Losing Things, an ongoing fill to a prompt on the Kinkmeme. This is a story about an abusive realationship, and has the following warnings: m/m, emotional trauma, angst, unhealthy relationship, violence, dub-con, emotional manipulation, drugs, bondage, dark themes.**

Even though there was a cloak between him and the mattress, the thought of the begbugs surely inhabiting the flighty straw stuffing made Anders's skin crawl. Or maybe it was that the man who had walked out of the house bore no resemblance to the man he'd fallen in love with. Hawke had the look of a bloodmage, blinkered to everything save his own goals.

The worst part was, Anders would not find fault with his aims. Everything he was doing, even lashing out with fists, was part of some demented plan to keep him safe.

Both his wrists ached, the rope rubbing the skin raw as he squirmed on the bed, the one which Hawke had crushed now blueish and swollen. A quick healing spell would ensure that the hand could still function come the morning, rather than have to wait the days it would take for the swelling to go down and the pain subside. Hawke's threat however, made him keep tight control on the temptation to use magic.

His eye too, was aching, and he could barely see for the puffy flesh surrounding it. He could feel his blood pumping below the surface of his skin, pounding rapidly as he felt his guilt and anxiety rise in his chest.

That Hawke had used such violence, only told of how much he was suffering.

He -had- given up everything for Anders, and it was a debt that the mage could never hope to repay. Yet, instead of at least trying to make amends for pulling Hawke from the comfortable life of a noble, he was pushing Hawke to extreme measures. Driving the rogue towards the precipice of madness. The guilt at what his actions had already cost the man racked his frame, set against the bed and wriggling helplessly. For Hawke, he'd do almost anything. He did not quite know how far the man might push, but he decided that his life for the sake of Hawke's happiness was a fair price to repay Hawke for sparing him.

The hours ticked by, and Anders became increasingly anxious, unable to do anything to distract him from the growing knot of panic that rose in his gut. What if Hawke had finally decided that he had no need for an apostate? What could he do to show Hawke that through all that had happened, he still loved him, wanted him to remain?

If Hawke had no cause to be angry, perhaps he would in time heal, and lose that pent up rage that caused him to lash out with fist and words. If Anders gave him no reason to doubt him, perhaps he would trust the mage to obey without need for threats and ropes... If he gave his all to Hawke, maybe, just maybe, he'd have no cause to leave...

* * *

><p>Hawke deliberately took his time in the markets, buying some simple food and enquiring about work. He haggled, merrily swapping coarse jokes with the dock workers, and elegant pleasantness with the haggard fishwives. Of the flow of banal banter, he paid due attention to the taverns he was recommended, knowing better than to ask out in the open about lyrium. That, and the names of warehouses that might be interested in a man who could pull his weight, and be counted upon to turn up on time.<p>

He gave a good impression, charming and trust-worthy. His good looks and practised smile had won over many who should have known better, and he used his every skill and trick when talking to his new neighbours. In conversation, he gave enough vague information about who he was, where he'd come from to be plausible and not rouse curiosity, but also not betray his past. He took a new name, this time his favourite wine merchant from Kirkwall, Jules.

When he sun had started to slink away, he started back home. That Anders might have taken the opportunity to escape, that he had fled before Hawke could do worse that tie him down and blacken his eye, did not occur to Hawke. He knew Anders loved him too much, had become Dependant on him, for the lyrium, for the protection, for the brief moments where he would treat his mage with care and attention.

He opened the door and set his purchases on the table, save for one that was safely tucked into his pocket. Walking quietly through to the bedroom, he let his eyes roll over the man bound there.

"Now this... This is a sight I could get used to. You waiting for me, all tied up and pretty..."

He watched as Anders's eyes grew less wide at the praise, some of the uncertainty at what mood Hawke would be in when he returned eased. The mage licked his lips, and tried to lift his head to see better the man. Straining at the rope looped over his wrists, Anders winced and Hawke noted with satisfaction that he had not healed either his face, nor the angry red scraping of shipping rope against sensitive, bruised flesh.

He bent, pressing his lips to the inside of a bound wrist. "Good..." He breathed, then straightened.

Anders's eye had darkened, the colour collecting around the edge of his face like a shadow. The sight of the mark, his mark, stark against Anders's pale skin and blonde hair, filled him with a strange sense of power. He decided that he would endeavour to mark Anders more often, the colour suited him.

The mage was growing restless, under Hawke's careful scrutiny. He licked his lips again, as though it might help his words slide froth. Hawke quirked his head sideways, interested in what Anders might have to say.

"You came back... You were gone so long I was afraid that you might not..."

He smiled down at the blonde, and cupped the face drawn tight with worry in his hand. The fear that he might actually disappear had made the mage compliant, thankful for Hawke's continued presence. It was gratifying to see, at long last.

"I'd not leave unless it was necessary. After all, all of my favourite things are here..."

Anders smiled at the compliment, and Hawke let his fingers spay and stroke firmly across stubble and down the lines of his throat. Anders made no move to shift from the pressure on his windpipes, trusting Hawke. The rogue smiled, and reached into his pocket.

"I got you a gift... " He brought out a small bottle of oil, holding it so that Anders did not have to strain to see. Anders drank in the implication with greedy eyes, and flashed a mischievous smile at Hawke, his eyebrows arched suggestively.

"Hmmm, it's just what I always wanted... Untie me, and we'll put it to good use..."

Hawke looked over the mage, stretched out, submissive, and crawled onto the bed, hovering over the mage like his namesake.

"Let us leave them on... The ropes look so good on you, so very good..."

Anders was given no chance to respond, before Hawke was upon him, kissing with fierce possessiveness. Between clashing tongue and teeth, he could see Anders react to his praise at his attractiveness, flexing without any intent to escape the bindings, eyes locked on how Hawke would murr approvingly at the display.

Clothes were pulled from bodies hurriedly, and discarded on the floor. Soon, the only scrap of cloth between them was Anders's tunic, the way he was bound preventing its removal.

Hawke settled himself half way up the bed, kneeling with Anders's legs spread either side, hips resting on his knees. He caressed up and down the exposed thighs with firm, sure hands, the plain of the stomach, faintly trembling with anticipation, until finally palming against the soft flesh of Anders's sac. He kneaded the flesh lightly, as he used teeth to get the stopper from the bottle, flicking splatters of oil across the bed in his rush to retrieve the contents. He coated his hand, fingers rubbing against each other, watching how Anders would tip his head to catch the wet sound of the oil covering his dextrous, strong fingers. How the noise made him pant, and writhe for the slick touch to be pressed deep inside.

Under his attentions, he could feel the mage's balls grow heavy, and firm in the heat of his hand. He used gentle pressure to coax Anders to lift his hips further into his lap, tilting to give him access to his entrance. Already, he could see the flush of blood, stiffening Anders's member and granting it a darker shade than pale skin of his belly.

The mage issued a soft groan as he urged his finger past the tight ring of muscle, deep into the soft tissue, till he found the small lump that caused Anders to throw his head back and will his body into the intrusion. Crooking his finger repeatedly over the spot, he watched Anders started to thrash, tossing from side to side, only to find the ropes unyielding. Through his excretions, his blonde hair had shugged the piece of leather tying it back, and hung in messy strands over his ears.

He slid another finger in, coaxing the muscle to relax. The almost pained whine from his partner was undoing his discipline, and he looked up to see Anders, dishevelled, eyes almost black with desire. He removed his hand, and placed both under the mage's ass, lifting it high as he lined up his own throbbing erection against the glistening pucker of dark flesh. He pressed forwards, feeling the oil ease the passage as muscle rolled over the head of his manhood, causing him to exhale a breath that rattled his teeth. Inch by inch, he slid in deep, slick insides massaging his length, Anders's squirms to accommodate the assault thrumming through his whole body.

He sat up, lifting himself and Anders up so that only the mage's shoulders and spread arms were in contact with the bed, and then started to rock back and forth. Each thrust, even though he was striving to go slowly to draw out the experience, caused Anders to shift, wrists rubbing against rope, the mage wincing but not saying a word. Every time he winced though, he clenched most deliciously around his shaft. He found himself pushing harder, testing the rope and Anders's self-restraint to not cry out in pain, rather than pleasure. When he saw the sheen of water start around soft brown eyes, squeezed shut but occasionally fluttering as he nudged against the lump of nerves inside, he grasped the mage's own erection, hand wrapping over the skin and pumping it.

He could see the pain mar the pleasure, writ in Anders's face, but not undo the tight threads of arousal making his voice thin and needy. His entire body fought it, shuddering and writhing, each breath letting loose a fresh moan.

Feeling Anders tense, he saw the arch of his release, Hawke then decided he would take his own. He drove deep into the mage, senses singing with the heat and smell and sight of Anders laid out before him, sagging but still feeling the bite of rope. Anders gave a final little groan as he spurted seed into him, the sticky heat escaping as soon as he pulled out and started to untie the ropes.

Anders, once freed, examined his wrists, noting that the ropes had come away bloody. By no means the worse injury he'd ever sustained, but painful all the same. He was about to ask Hawke permission to heal, when he saw the rogue had already collapsed on the bed and fallen into a doze, and decided it could wait. He knew he ought to follow suit and get some sleep, but after a day of being on the bed, worrying himself sick, he had no desire to lie back down so soon, even if Hawke's gentle snores left him sorely tempted.

He got up, and used a rag to clean himself out. His voice felt hoarse, and so he set about making a pot of tea, telling himself that it was only for the soothing heat on his throat that he wanted, not the mix of drugs he knew that he was addicted to.

As he made his tea, there was a growing insistent line of thoughts clouded his head, keeping his from basking in the pleasant afterglow. That Hawke had referred to him as one of his 'favourite things', an object rather than a person, a lover, crossed a dangerous line. That the slick oil had always been a shared possession, and that Hawke seemed to think it was worthy of gift status when it was essential that his partner did not suffer during sex was more than a little alarming. That he had come to depend on the tea so readily, when he'd seen deathroot addicts, sitting in rags in the slums of Darktown, eyes bloodshot and sunk deep, giving their faces the appearance of skulls. However, Anders was practised at forcing Justice's voice aside, and so he concentrated on the way the steam curled from the teapot, and the crackle of the small fire warming the water. Things weren't quite right, true, but they would get better. Once he'd managed to settle Hawke down, give him no cause for anger, things would return to the way things were. Hawke would be happy again.

To make Hawke happy he would give anything. Everything.

* time passed *

Anders began to keep house during his long hours left alone, laying things out how Hawke preferred. The bed was always to be kept clear, the man's sexual appetite not to be subverted by clutter on the bedsheets. He knew where everything was, and could help in the mornings when Hawke stomped about looking for his socks, or a clean shirt. Hawke usually did not have time to thank Anders properly for his diligence in keeping the place tidy, but on the rare occasion Anders couldn't remember where he had folded a certain tunic to, or not swept the fireplace, Hawke had been scathing, wondering aloud how Anders couldn't even manage such simple tasks.

* time passed *

Hawke had noticed Anders, now that the made was not running a clinic, nor running from templars, had started to grow soft around his belly. It took only a couple of well-placed, seemingly innocent jibes at the lack of tone, before Anders started to exercise and stretch when Hawke was not around. The mage also ate less, encouraging Hawke to take the lion's share of the meals they shared.

It was no effort to make compliment of the smooth plains of the mage's body, and Anders had shone with pride at the praise.

* time passed *

Anders, after a brief discussion about how Hawke had to do all the laundry, only wore a tunic. Hawke had noted that if the mage wasn't going out, and Hawke would be the only one to see him, there was not much point in his sweating up a fresh pair of breeches every day. Anders had agreed, albeit reluctantly, and often had to sit with a blanket over his legs to stop himself catching a chill.

* time passed *

A year since the chantry had been destroyed, and Hawke still worried that people would be out hunting for Anders. He introduced new rules, to keep the mage safe, threatening again that he would leave if they were not obeyed. He was not to look out the window, and during sex, he would keep his cries quiet so as not to alert the neighbours. This was not as easily accomplished, and so, when Hawke had had a particularly gruelling day pushing crates on and off of ships, and wanted a solid hard night that would have the mage all but screaming by the time he was through, he presented Anders with a gift... A gag.

* time passed *

Anders had just made a fresh cup of tea one day, when Hawke crept in and planted a kiss at the back of his neck. In surprise, he'd dropped the cup, where it smashed on the ground. He had not even seen the blow that followed, Hawke hissing that he worked so sodding hard for that lyrium, and how dare Anders waste it. Head throbbing, and a thin line of blood seeping from his temple, Anders had bowed his head and apologised. He had knelt down, and started to pick up the broken pieces. Hawke stepped forwards, and 'as a warning not to do it again' used a thick leather boot to grind Anders's outstretched hand into the fallen shards, crushing them beyond repair.

* time passed *

The rooms they shared were scarce from many items, Hawke all but sworn off of material possessions. He had, however, amassed a fair collection of shipping ropes, and most of the time, remembered to soak them to soften the coarse fibre before using them on Anders. The mage was always able to tell.

* time passed *

As time went on, Hawke had not calmed as Anders had hoped. After yet another black eye, he forced himself to review the situation. Hawke's mood swung wildly, from gentle and affectionate to angry and aggressive, making it difficult to predict how best to respond. Hawke was drinking more, empty bottles of wine collecting in the house and cluttering up the bedroom. Any attempt to bring up such issues, or discuss the past, usually resulted in a barked order to shut up, or a thrown bottle.

Anders pledged he would try harder.

* time passed *

Anders's fingernails become brittle, as a side effect of the quantities of lyrium he consumed. His hands were sometimes painful when a nail broke, or bends the wrong way when he applied too much pressure on his tender digits. It made attending to the chores a painful, slow process, and he was not always able to mask the blood that ringed his nails from Hawke. If the rogue was disturbed by the state of his hands, he did not say. Hawke carefully did not mention that he was surprised that Anders still had his sight, and hair.

* time passed *

The mage suffered from bone-rattling shakes from the moment he woke up in the morning, and could only be stilled when he managed to drink his tea. With his hands in tatters, and sometimes unable to pour the water he was shaking so badly, he had to rely on Hawke to make his brew. Sometimes, it would take hours of shivering and feeling sick, before Hawke would rise and put the pot on to boil. Sometimes, Hawke would not wake till late afternoon.

* time passed *

Upon hearing some dock workers chatting about a band of templars headed their way, and a couple of coarse references to games of 'the templar and the naughty apostate', Hawke had decided they would move on, while they still could. They left Anders's staff behind, Hawke decided it was too obvious to keep.

As they crept out in the dead of night, Anders had not commented that he thought Hawke a little paranoid, and that their escape to be an overreaction.

* time passed *

Four towns on (they became skilled at stealing away in the night, often acting on no more than Hawke's gut feeling or rumour), Hawke took work as a mercenary, and would come home with great gouges and cuts. Anders mended the flesh, and often worked himself to exhaustion in setting right the damage, the effort of controlling the magic difficult now that it was the only time Hawke permitted him to unleash his magic. So much lyrium in his veins, with no outlet, he sometimes felts sparks jump from his fingers when he wasn't paying attention. Anders hid this from Hawke, fearful of what his reaction would be.


	9. Chapter 9

* 6 years after the chantry was destroyed*

They had run out of lyrium, for the first time in years. Anders drank his tea, bereft of the magical powder but still laced with Deathroot, Feverfew and Eddle's Blossom, but found it did little to calm him. Not when he knew Justice could be lurking in his mind, growing stronger with the lack of lyrium to keep him subdued, ready to strike out at Hawke. He had had such peace in his own mind since he'd given let Hawke dictate his every waking moment, it was unnerving to think of the spirit reawakening within him, rekindling the misspent passion for the mage's cause.

He had both succeeded and failed, in his efforts to free the magi. Hawke, his only window to the outside world, had told him of the slow death of the circles. The populace would give no coin for healing or protection for they no longer had trust in the magics, and the templar, without the means to sustain themselves, never mind the circles they had sworn to serve, had mostly fallen back and regrouped near the chantrys. This provided a more than willing army, when the chantry decided to extract vengeance for the work of one man upon every circle, each one surrounded and put under siege. The occupants were either massacred en masse, or starved to death barricaded within.

So he had, in a way, destroyed the Circle. It could not have had further from his hope if a demon had granted his wish and twisted it. All mages now, were hunted and hated.

He was frightened to think of what Justice might have to say about the whole sorry mess. That had been why he'd never refused the tea, never tried to wean Justice off of it as he had originally planned. Why until now, justice had been effectively gagged.

Finally, when he could hear the whispers of something crawling around the back of his head, he turned to Hawke and pointed to the pile of neatly coiled ropes.

"Perhaps it would be best, if you were to tie my hands so Justice cannot cast if he were to emerge. Maybe even tie me to a chair or the bed... I do not want to hurt you."

Hawke looked at him, thoughtful. "Sit yourself on the chair then."

The ropes were used to bind bond hands down by his sides, and looped under the chair so he couldn't easily rise up and strike at Hawke physically. The reassurance of the bindings eased the tremor in his chest, and Anders looked at Hawke, apologetic for the trouble he continued to cause his love.

"Try to cast..." Hawke said softly, and they both saw the tremulous flicker of a healing speak flutter about Anders's fingertips. Difficult to control, and harder still to aim, but the magic was there. Short of breaking his fingers, Anders could not think what else he could not to block the rush of magical energy that thrummed through his body.

"Hmm... I thought so. Sit tight, I have something that will be of use." Hawke, turned his back to fetch something, and for a heart-stopping moment Anders pictured him pulling out the hilt of a dagger to crush against hand.

There was a box under the bed which Anders was not permitted to touch, and from that Hawke pulled a large dark green bottle. He pulled one of his daggers from his belt, and approached Anders.

"Magebane." he explained, coating the dagger. "It'll take a little cut, I'm afraid, but it will stop you from using magic. I'll have to re-apply regularly... Let me know when you can sense your mana return."

Anders, the cool wash of relief that such drastic measures as breaking fingers was not to be considered, regarded the bottle, it's contents the fear of many a mage. "Why would you have such a poison?"

"Just in case. Ready?"

He cut a quick line into Anders's shoulder, and the mage instantly felt the magic leave his body as poison met blood. He gasped at the sensation, and looked to Hawke, seeing how little of the thick liquid he had seen being used. The bottle was half empty, and far too large a quantity for 'just in case'. He did not pursue the matter however, he knew he would probably not like the answer. He'd seen Hawke's wounds from work, and treated them personally. He'd have had to be blind (or lyrium-addled) not to notice the frequent burns, or the way that Hawke's ribs were crushed without a single dent to his armour, or the frostbite in the middle of summer. Anders suspected Hawke had a lot more dealings with magi than he would admit, aggressive magi... He did not care to think on what Hawke was doing to possibly anger so many magic users, nor how he was managing to afford such quantities of wine and lyrium. Such thoughts would only lead to argument, and arguments always ended with Hawke's fist.

The days ticked on, and justice made no sign of emergence. Hawke, torn between leaving Anders alone with the fade spirit, and going out to source the lyrium they so desperately needed, paced almost constantly. Anders was willing enough to be tied down, even sleeping in the chair, and Hawke had admitted, after yet another apology from the mage that he was hungry again, that there was a certain novel pleasure to be found in feeding the mage, his hands bound tight to the legs of the chair. Of having him so completed dependent, passive and prefect.

Anders had practically shone with the gentle affectionate words.

He'd finished 'freshening' Anders with a wet washcloth, and then returned to the bowl of milky porridge he'd left to cool by the still, with honey added, just how Anders liked it. Spoon by spoon, careful not to go too fast, or burn the mage with porridge still piping hot, Hawke fed Anders. Anders swallowed gratefully, and smiled. He lived for these rare moments, when Hawke would look upon him and not sneer or snarl.

Finally, Hawke tore himself away from his mage, hand on the door frame, and knuckles white with tension.

"I'll be back... As soon as I am able."

* * *

><p>As soon as Hawke disappeared, Anders could felt he was not alone.<p>

At first, justice's thoughts were brief flashes, short and sharp like a mabari barking. All want and need, hardly making sense. Anders struggled to calm the spirit, try to understand, but those hammerblows drowned out any coherent dialogue.

Slowly though, justice became stronger, threading words together, making a connection between them that Anders had missed. Anders spoke aloud, it seemed the best way to keep his thoughts clear and organised for the spirit to respond to.

"Justice... I need to know, do you still intend to hurt Hawke?"

There was no answer, but he could sense justice's need for the man, and what he provides. It mirrored his own dependence, and he wondered how much was a product of the bond he and the fade spirit shared, that both of them were hopelessly mixed up in a need and addiction they could not untangle.

"will you try to take control of my body?"

"No." Justice's voice, raspy, a whisper, but heartfelt as far as he could tell. He probed deeper, seeking reassurance that he would not be used against the man he loved. There was an impression of shame, and resentment, that justice had no wish to show Hawke what the spirit had been reduced to. That justice feared should he take control, he would only beg Hawke openly for the lyrium.

The shame and hurt of these thoughts made Anders start, unused to feeling justice's presence, and the strength of the spirit's emotions.

"Could you leave then..? Return to the fade?"

"No." justice sounded like defeat, weary, a far cry for the raw power he'd felt flow through him when the spirit was presence, and they had fought for their cause, "It is too late. I do not desire to leave." there was a thought that went unsaid, -I only desire the lyrium-.

* * *

><p>Paying for the lyrium was not the problem. Being a mage hunter, dealing with those that the masses feared, was lucrative. Moreover, he would often find extra little stashes of coin in the robes of his bounties, scrimped and saved pennies to fend off starvation. He brought most of these mages in dead, they were less likely to growing bulky and demonic that way. Healers, however, were in high demand, the great cities struggling in their wars against each other, and more than willing to have a little healer mage in chains to serve their armies. If he was quick enough, he got to those with the healer talent before they could stab themselves with a dagger or choke down some poison.<p>

Anders would undoubtedly hate the idea of Hawke rounding up the last desperate mages as they hid in cellars and caves, so he did not share the exact details of his job description with him. Besides, it was a tactical manoeuvre, for he would get wind of any gossip concerning the biggest bounty of them all, the chantry-murdering abomination of Kirkwall. Sebastian had issued the reward, of that he had no surprise, but as an experienced bounty hunter, if he were to be caught with Anders, he could claim he was taking the mage in to collect the 20000 gold reward. There was safety in being privy to the word on the street concerning Anders, and it offered an escape route should all else fail. At least that's what he told himself.

The lyrium though, was becoming problematic. Not the cost, he could easily cover that the number of scared, underfed little circle mages he'd brought in, mostly too weak to even aim their fireballs. The sheer quantity he required though, that was the issue. He;d been upping Anders's dose, every time he thought he saw the mage about to answer back, or pause before following his demands, he swore that he could see justice just on the verge of breaking through. True there had been no flash of blue, and Anders seemed to think the spirit had gone into a sort of hibernation, but that could well be a rouse of the spirit to get him off guard. It wasn't worth the risk, so, again, not bothering to worry Anders with the details, he'd been steadily increasing the amount of lyrium needed for the tea.

He'd made connection with three different dealers, one of which was a aged templar, who probably consumed more of the lyrium than he sold. That, and taking a peep at whatever was shipped through the port had sufficed so far. Then the templar had died, well, gone into a sort of lyrium-induced coma, and could not be woken, Hawke had found his second dealer had been stabbed in the night, probably because he was supplying raw lyrium on the side, and one of his regulars had not been able to handle the maddening substance.

He had one more dwarf to visit, before he would consider a midnight raid upon the warehouses by the docks, but either why, justice would be provided. Indeed, Hawke thought to himself wryly, when he managed to obtain the poisonous powder, Justice would be served.

* * *

><p>Hawke opened the door, and held out a solid block of lyrium, his prise for threatening to cut the ears of the dwarf's daughter if he didn't hand it over right that instant. Anders gave a nod, solemn, and a little scared.<p>

"I can hear him." he said, quietly, and Hawke started to mix the tea at once. Anders's eyes widened a little at the sight of exactly how much of the block Hawke was adding to the leaves, grinding them in a pestle and mortar with the deathroot and other ingredients. He said nothing, but could felt his mouth water at the sight of the powder, justice apparently watching through his eyes, transfixed on the process. While Hawke was blending, Anders tried to speak, a slow uncomfortable burn of guilt gnawing at him.

"Hawke... I need to tell you, justice... All he thinks about is the lyrium. There is no greater goal for him anymore..."

"That's addiction for you." Hawke muttered, mixing the blend to distribute the dose evenly through the tealeaves.

"I think... perhaps we should stop drugging him." A flash of angry panic filled his head, making him falter. He gave himself a brief shake, and pressed on,"He says he will not fight for control... It may be possible to undo the wrong we have caused him..Wean him from the lyrium. Let him return to the fade... He doesn't want to go, but I think it'd be for the best if he was freed."

Hawke looked up, frowning. "Justice could well be lying to you..."

"Justice does not lie!" There was no mistaking the difference in the voice, raspy and weak as it was.

Hawke shook his head, pouring hot water over a pinch of the new batch of tea. He held the cup out to Anders, "I don't believe it."

Anders, feeling the surge of desperate *want* in reaction to the cup offered him, turned his head. "please Hawke, I don't think it is right. I took a creature of the fade into myself, but we have drugged him... And possibly destroyed him. Can we not try to make things right?"

Hawke stood, and held the cup in his hand, tapped against the side with a finger.

"Justice... What do you think. Do you want to go through the pain and torment of withdrawal?"

Flickers of blue streaked across Anders's face, his eyes dancing with blue fire.

"Well now, that seems to answer whether you'll take control or not." Hawke said coldly, "Now... tell me you want it."

"..." Justice, flickering but obvious in the open hatred he wore on his face, said nothing.

"Tell me, or I'll pour the whole sodding cup to the ground."

low, a rumbling hiss, "no... I may be desperate, but I'll not give you the satisfaction."

Hawke grinned, and started to tip the cup, drops falling past his fingers to the floor. "I find it interesting that you think you have a choice... Now. Tell me you want it."

Justice's eyes widened, and he leaned forwards, the chair creaking as he wore against the restraints. As the drops became a trickle, he dipped his head, defeated.

"Please..."

Hawke used Anders's hair to pull the head up, and pressed the cup to the lips, which gulps greedily at the liquid. When the cup was empty, Hawke used the nearby washcloth to affectionatly wipe a stray drop from the stubble of the chin, watching as the blue flickers receded.

He felt triumphant, finally having beaten justice, not just contained the fade spirit. He noted, coldly, that Anders did not look half as so pleased at his victory. The mage looked ill. He leant over and brushed a stray wisp of hair from his mage's face.

"Don't look at me like that... Justice wanted it. I'll not be able to untie you yet though, need to make sure the drug has taken proper effect."

Without waiting for reply, Hawke turned to prepare some dinner for the two of them, leaving Anders bound to the chair.

* * *

><p>Anders felt the lyrium fight the magebane within him, blood almost boiling at the power untapped, singing in a deafening chorus.<p>

After a while, he could feel the tea seep through his body, calming frayed nerves, giving everything a distant hazy feel. Some part of him held on to the lingering sensation of doubt, fighting against the wash of of calm of the drugged tea, despite the uncomfortable sensation it produced in his gut.

"It's working..." He said quietly, feeling justice drift from him. He took a breath, and then, more to himself, added; "At least he seems happy now."

"So why do you still look as though I have kicked a kitten? The spirit got what he wanted, and will not cause you anymore bother."

Anders tried to ease his brow, but the creeping unease still clung to him. Justice might well be happy, in a lyrium stupor, but that didn't make it right... He knew better than to argue with Hawke however, didn't want to risk the fragile concern and care Hawke had started to show much more frequently to be ruined.

Hawke took the pot of stew from the hook over the fire, and left it to cool on a slab on stone on the floor. He looked up at Anders, and his face slowly spilt into a wide smile.

It only took him a pace or two to reach the mage, on his knees and grinning as he rubbed his cheek against Anders's thigh.

"I know what we can do while we wait for dinner to cool..." His tone was all thick lust and though Anders tried to shake his head against Hawke's advances, Hawke paid the man in the chair no mind as he began to nuzzle and rub against the inner thigh, hot breath rolling over his member.

It took an age for Hawke to get the flacid flesh to respond, licked and sucking and kissing and breathing over the delicate skin till it at last started to harden, against Anders's will. It seemed disrespectful to bid farewell to his hidden passenger in such a way, and he strove to keep the last whispers of justice with him, rather than indulge in Hawke's skilled tongue.

His body was too well trained however, and soon his manhood stood, straining upwards, as Hawke lavished it with wet tongue and tightly gathered mouth. Just as he felt his rear raise from the chair in near completion, Hawke pulled away, grinning wickedly.

"Tell me you want it." he drawled.

Anders bucked at the cold loss of sensation, and the poor humour of Hawke's words. He would have maintained his indignant frown, but for Hawke's causal insistent licks up the underside of his shaft, flicking against the ridge of his head, every breath a promise of the wet heat that lay in wait beyond Hawke's grin.

Anders reached for Justice, blindly trying to summon strength, to hold on to his outrage and not give in to Hawke, not on this, the final straw. What was left of Justice was not much more than faint threads of lyrium induced bliss, and unresponsive to his moral stance. Unresponsive to anything save for the lyrium coursing through his veins.

He slumped, giving in entirely, finding no strength to draw on to deny Hawke anymore.

"I want it Hawke..." His voice was flat, and spoken like a dying breath, "I want you."

With that, Hawke consumed him.

* * *

><p>Anders could not feel Justice at all anymore, save for the pleasant buzz at the back of his mind when he drank his tea.<p>

He had lost track of where they had wound up, the cityscapes beyond the closed curtains meaningless to him, and Hawke more and more frequently coming home in a panic over some unspecified threat, and demanding they move to a different town.

Despite the constant upheaval, Hawke seemed better these days, now that Anders had ceased to question or argue with him. All magic inflicted wounds were healed without comment, and the bottle of magebane was no longer hidden. Anders had started to add a drop or two to his tea, to keep his unintentional sparks at bay. If Hawke had noticed that his poison was depleted quicker than usual, he had not made comment of it.

Despite requesting that Anders was awake and waiting for him when he returned home, Hawke had started to stay out late at the local taverns, often coming home in the dead of night, and falling into an instant sleep as Anders quietly mended the damage the vast quantities of alcohol caused to his internal organs.

One day he surprised Anders by coming home early, and wrapped the mage into a tight, almost crushing, embrace.

"Mine..." He breathed, cheek pressed firmly against the crown on Anders's head.

The last part of Anders that realised he had become little more than a favourite possession, rather than a person, shuddered at the word. It was the only part of him that still felt Hawke had done Justice wrong, that still held on to a frail and tremulous believe that Anders was more than just Hawke's pet mage. The doubts, the concerns at what Anders had allowed himself to become were quickly drowned out by the desperate need to please Hawke, still, after all these years, trying to repay a debt that could never be matched.

_'Mine.'..._ And the small fading voice of what was once a strong and powerful mage, willing to sacrifice everything for his cause, feared that it was true.


	10. epilogue

Warning- very dark themes, death, violence and gore.

18 years later

He'd found a little shack in the depths of the forest, dank and dark, but thankfully far enough from civilisation that they would not be found.

Anders was not well. He was pale, from long years without sunlight, but moreso as the dark lines of tainted blood marred his skin and drew all the colour from his face. His flesh was a mesh of almost black veins, and he was losing chucks of hair at an alarming rate at the grey warden curse took hold. He'd screech at Hawke, thrashing and throwing himself from side to side, both while sleeping and awake.

He'd had to knock the mage out to get him this far, but Hawke was confident that the hut they'd holed up in would be undisturbed. He ignored that the once solid walls were damp and soggen, and what used to be a handsome hunting lodge was derelict and held no warmth within its rotting structure. It was ruined, beyond repair, but at least it was theirs.

Anders was rarely himself these days, often snarling and having to be tied down to prevent him hurting either Hawke or himself. Hawke took no pleasure in securing the knots, nor seeing the figure laid out upon the bed, twisting like a worm on a hook. Hawke had despaired at the change, not used to having to face something he could not fight or talk his way out of. He demanded that Anders not give in to the darkspawn taint, but for the first time in years, the mage had disobeyed. So he had used more rope, to ensure that the darkspawn wearing his lovers form could not get free.

He knew, even without Anders's increasingly infrequent pleas, that he should give the mage mercy and kill him. He'd even, at one point, after hearing nothing but Anders's voice, cracked, weak, at first begging for death, and then an animalistic gnashing of teeth, held a dagger over the heaving chest. Anders had regained his senses long enough to breathe a 'thank you', and Hawke had faltered, unable to complete the act.

Anders had howled then, and Hawke, watching foam gather in the corners of the mage's mouth, had put the dagger away.

He would have liked to pretend that it was love that held him back, but when he was truthful to himself, he knew that it was the fear of what he would do without the mage that stayed his hand. He had lost so much, to lose Anders as well, despite the monster that he had become, was too much. He did not know how to go on without the mage to look after, to protect. He did not know how to live without the mage.

* * *

><p>Four days later, like a Maker blessed miracle, Anders regained his focus, the black blood within him receding temporarily. The mage begged Hawke for death, tears in his whitening eyes, repeating again and again the mantra Hawke had ingrained, with a voice that must have hurt to even whisper it was so dry and strained from the inhuman screaming,<p>

"I want it. I want it. I want it."

Hawke shook his head, wiping the sweat from the abomination's forehead, smiling sadly, knowing he could not grant that what Anders was so openly asking for.

Anders, or the thing that once was Anders, slumped, and looked to Hawke, plaintive but without strength to go on demanding his demise. Hawke took advantage of the rare moment where he could almost see his love, as things once were. Nevermind that his skin was sickly pale, and clammy, and nevermind that his eyes were leeched of their colour, and intelligence. This was Anders, his Anders, hated and feared throughout Thedas, and his.

Hawke bent, slower now, time having caught up with his bones and roguish grace, and dealt them foul blow. Positioning himself over his precious mage, he touched his lips upon Anders's forehead, kissing skin so thin it threatened to spilt under the slightest pressure.

With a sudden feral snarl Anders lunged forwards, and caught Hawke's throat in his mouth, teeth digging into flesh. Hawke grasped and gasped for his freedom, but the teeth tore through his skin, and he felt hot blood wash over them both.

Fading fast, he saw the monster splutter and cough, as thick blood filled its mouth, choking it. He fell down, no longer able to hold himself off the Anders/darkspawn, and he heard the rush of air bubble through his own blood pooling in a gaping jagged maw as he forced the lungs beneath him to empty under his weight.

The last thing Hawke saw, was a flicker of blue, as his blood pumped from his body, the darkspawn grinning wide as if his lips might spilt as it wheezed and then went limp, blood clogging its throat.

The end.

((You can all have kittens, and nugs, and lots and lots of hugs now. This was a very dark ride, and I thank you for bearing with me as I explored it. Thanks for the op for the prompt, and for every single anon who commented. Every comment makes a writer smile, and smiling writes write more.))

Original prompt: Hawke doesn't kill Anders after the Chantry goes kaboom and he allows him to stay with him, but slowly his bitterness over what happened festers. He had a good life in Kirkwall, built with so much sweat, blood and tears, he lost so much while he climbed the social ladder and finally when he found a measure of happiness Anders did what he did. He still loves Anders, but at the same time cannot help but resent him for living like a hunted, homeless refugee once again. At first he becomes verbally abusive, then the verbal abuse slowly transforms into physical - from snide, cruel comments he moves to insults, to hitting and forceful, painful for Anders sex. Anders never talks back or fights back in any way, he follows Hawke like a puppy no matter what the other does, breaking more and more until he's but a shadow of his former self. Give me angst and dysfunction, anon!


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